


The Witch Path I: Blood of Gods

by TheVictorian



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: A Confederacy of Dunces, Elves, Gen, No Romance, Novelization, Sesquipedalian Loquaciousness, Silly, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 99,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVictorian/pseuds/TheVictorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Talvi Korpela was an elf. Not an elf like you or I imagine, but rather a very silly girl in a very silly tale. All she wanted was to drink wine and frolic naked in the woods, but alas, she is forced to live in a world where these things are denied her again and again. Oh, and there's something in there about her loutish half-brother attempting to murder her as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Very Silly Girl

_Pictured: The most excellent and illustrious heroine of this tale, an elven intellectual titan nonpareil, of unsurpassed beauty and arcane might, vanquisher of evil and ignorance, defender of Good Taste and Decency and stalwart opponent of Impertinence, Meretriciousness, and Artistic Turpitude.  
_

 

 

 

Chapter 1 – A Very Silly Girl

* * *

Flames reached up into the night sky, casting a warm, yellow light upon the weathered stones of Candlekeep. The blaze had drawn a number of monks had to the walls and ramparts, although none of them were at all surprised by the inferno. They were quite certain of which individual was responsible for the sudden conflagration, as this was hardly the first such occurrence. Nor, did they figure, would it be the last, for the most likely perpetrator had burned down three buildings in the past two months alone.

Her name was Talvi Korpela, a moon elf born in the High Forest and orphaned at a young age. She had spent nearly all her life at Candlekeep and had no memory of her real family, something that distressed her greatly, for there were no other elves in the library fortress and she wished very much to be amongst her own people.

Talvi's appearance was typical of her race; sharp, angular features, pale white skin, and a delicate, slender physique. She was perhaps a bit taller than the typical moon elf, and her long, golden hair was of a rather uncommon hue for her kind. Yet her most striking feature was her large, pale blue eyes that suggested both innocence and sweetness; a gaze that was reminiscent of a sad puppy begging for food at the dinner table and which had gotten out of her trouble on more than one occasion. Atop her head she wore a wreath of roses – magically enchanted so that the flowers would never wilt, of course – that had been a gift to her from a visiting cleric of Sune. Struck by Talvi's beauty, the cleric had offered the wreath in exchange for her permission to create a painting of her lying nude on a bearskin rug. The painting now hung on a wall on the ground floor of Candlekeep, and it had remained there despite the protests of the more prudish monks.

Yet all her beauty and wide-eyed innocence was lost on the dwarf Reevor, who was utterly incensed at the loss of his storehouse.

"Ye damn fool elf!"

The dwarf had tasked her with exterminating the rats that routinely infested his stores, one of the many irritating chores the inhabitants of Candlekeep often saddled her with. But the thought of bludgeoning some filthy rats to death with her staff was quite unpalatable to an aspiring archmage like herself, and so she had decided that a spell of Burning Hands would be a far better means of ridding the storehouse of the repulsive rodents.

So excited she had been at finally being able to put her spells to use, Talvi had forgotten that the storehouse was built from wood, a material that reacted rather poorly to fire.

"Um...sorry?"

With a tremendous _crash,_ the burning storehouse collapsed, sending a shower of embers skyward. "You're a disgrace to the troops, soldier!" the dwarf growled. "Snivelling rat dung, that's all you are!"

She had always found the dwarf's military mindset more amusing than intimidating. The rock-eaters prided themselves on being great warriors, but how could one ever take them seriously when they were so _short?_

"But at least I solved your rat problem!"

" _Helvitis_ _á_ _lf_ _kona!_ " Reevor wandered off, grumbling more dwarven profanities to himself. He'd soon be deep in his drink, Talvi knew, no doubt imbibing vast quantities of whatever swill his kind drank. She'd never tried the stuff, but Winthrop had once declared that dwarven ale tasted "like a donkey's arsehole." How he'd acquired the knowledge of what _that_ tasted like was something she'd rather not discover.

Quietly, and somewhat sheepishly, Talvi made her back to the central keep, dreading the upbraiding Gorion would surely give her in the morning.

* * *

"Control, child! You must learn control! Magic is the most powerful of forces, and must be treated with the utmost respect. It is not a toy to be used for your amusement or convenience!"

"But I read that in Halruaa, every housewife knows a few spells to help out with her chores. There's no reason I can't do the same!"

Gorion shook his head. "And the Halruaans, child, have centuries of experience with magic. You do not. As I have said many times before, you should never rely on magic to do that which you can do yourself."

Talvi had heard this lecture on numerous occasion, but this time Gorion's heart didn't seem to be in it. He appeared distracted by something, and for a second she considered asking him about his concerns, but she kept quiet.

"You have great potential within you, Talvi," he continued, "but it will never be realised if you cannot learn discipline! I don't have to tell you how dangerous magic can be; a single misread incantation or the wrong choice of spell components can lead to terrible disaster. I shouldn't have to remind you of what happened to poor old Firebead Elvenhair..."

Talvi groaned. "Why do you have to keep bringing that up, father? And why was I the one who had to clean up all the blood?"

"Because it is an important lesson, child."

"Which, Firebead or the blood?"

"Firebead's... _mishap..._ of course." Gorion let out a tired sigh and turned away. "The true measure of any mage is not the power of his spells, but in knowing when to use them. You're a wizard, Talvi, and not some damnable _sorcerer_ who cannot control himself, who has never so much as opened a single tome of arcane lore..."

Her foster-father had never masked his disdain for sorcerers, believing them to be clumsy, undisciplined fools who sought power without understanding it.

"I'm sorry, father," she said, hanging her head in her shame. Few things were was painful as knowing she'd disappointed him. "It's just that...I'm so tired of being stuck behind these walls! I want to see the world, not just read about it!"

For as long as she could remember, Talvi had dreamed of venturing beyond the walls of Candlekeep and experiencing life as an adventurer. She could imagine it now...delving into ancient dungeons, uncovering lost relics of unimaginable power, putting her magical abilities to the test...

...but what she wanted most of all was to throw off her clothes and frolic naked in the woods, as any proper elf was wont to do.

The concept of modesty was something that had always eluded her. Talvi could never understand why the monks were so upset about that nude painting of her – did they consider her body so repulsive that it had to be concealed at all times? It had to be a human thing, she thought. In her opinion, humans were second only to dwarves in their strident opposition to doing anything fun.

"In time, child, in time. But I'm afraid it is far too dangerous for you to travel the Sword Coast at present, what with these bandit raids and all."

Talvi couldn't hide her discouragement. It was always "too dangerous" to leave Candlekeep, though Gorion wasn't exaggerating about the increase in banditry over the past few months. None of the marauders had dared to attack the library fortress, but word was that almost no trading caravans had made it from Beregost to Baldur's Gate in over a month.

Gorion left for his study without another word, and Talvi could not help but feel that some matter was weighing heavily on his mind. Believing she had gotten off lightly this time, she returned to her room, hoping that she wouldn't receive another talking-to from Ulraunt, the Keeper of the Tomes and a man who could rival a dwarf in humourlessness. Fortunately for her, Ulraunt strove to avoid her presence if at all possible, almost if she would be the one to bring about his doom.

Talvi's room was small, as was the case with most of Candlekeep's inhabitants, consisting of a bed, a desk, a chest to store her personal belongings, and a bookcase where she had haphazardly stashed a number of tomes, scrolls, and other assorted materials. There was a single window by the side of her bed that faced east, so that in the morning a ray of sunlight would shine onto the opposite wall and then slowly move across the floor as the sun rose. When it reached her bed, that was when she knew it was time to get up, which happened to be far later than when other people in Candlekeep awoke. Predictably, this led her to being chastised for her "laziness," which Talvi took be another sign that humans were determined to be miserable. Why would anyone _want_ to get up early instead of staying in bed until midday?

With no chores to do, she decided to make another attempt at getting through that book Imoen had given her. It was called _The Hexer,_ and it was one of many books Imoen had been urging Talvi to read. Without fail, she had found them to be terrible beyond description.

This particular book dealt with a monster slayer named Geirmund of Rozpierdala, who despite his supposed profession spent most of his time either engaging in some dreadfully dull political intrigue or bedding the numerous women who continually threw themselves at him.

Talvi opened the book to where she had left off:

_"_ _Thank you ever so much for slaying that horrible troll," said the serving wench. Her clothes displayed generous cleavage. "But I'm afraid I have no money with which to pay you."_

_"I don't require your coin," Geirmund said badassfully._

_"But I insist! I know of...other...ways I can compensate you..." The serving wench let her dress fall to the floor..._

Shaking her head, she skipped ahead a few pages:

_"_ _There is no such thing as good and evil, hexer," said the priestess. Her robes displayed generous cleavage. "There are only choices."_

_"I don't understand," Geirmund said badassfully._

_"There is only 'evil' and 'really ploughing evil'. I sense this is the choice you will have to make, hexer."_

_"Hmm, you speak the truth," Geirmund mused badassfully. "Do I stand with the elves, who spice their wine with_ _children's_ _tears, or King Gr_ _ungnir, who used vile sorcery to father a child with his horse?"_

_"I do not envy you your choice," said the priestess. "In truth, I would just toss a coin for all I care. The prophecy says we're all going to die horribly in the coming months."_

_"Then we should make the best use of our time, then," said Geirmund badassfully._

_Without saying a word more, the priestess let her robes fall to the floor..._

"Well this is just rubbish!" Talvi flipped to the final chapter of the book, which was nothing but a twenty-page description of snow blowing across the graves of the characters. Never one to refrain from airing her opinion, she flipped back to the first page find the name of the author, one "D. Indelayne." Now aware of the individual responsible for this literary atrocity, she grabbed a blank piece of parchment and sat down at her desk to write a letter articulating her discontent:

_Dear Talentless Knobhead_

_I am writing this letter to express my complete and utter contempt for the abomination of_ _a novel_ _which you have most thoughtlessly inflicted upon the Realms,_ _and which through the vagaries of fortune has recently found its way into these hallowed halls of knowledge_ _. I am, of course, referring to your book "The Hexer," a tome which left a great impression on me. O_ _r_ _rather, it left a great impression on my wall when I threw it_ _there_ _with great force,_ _after which I concluded that if you possess any ability as a writer, or even the vaguest comprehension of the art of storytelling, you have done a most excellent job of concealing this fact._

_This book has several defects. The protagonist, Geirmund of Rozpierdala, is at once an unlikeable ninny, an insufferable bore, an outrageous philanderer, a detestable cynic, and all-around miserable git. This alone would be enough to damn this tome to the ninth and final hell in my estimation, but in a truly miraculous display of what must either be unfettered misanthropy or sheer hatred towards life itself, you have crafted a world that is inhabited by thoroughly contemptible individuals that make our grim and grimy hero look like Drizzt Do'Urden by comparison. And I heartily object to having Geirmund's po-faced countenance adorning the cover of this tome; I dare say that should he grimace any harder it is likely that he will suffer an apoplexy in the near future._

_Your treatment of elves deserves to singled out for ridicule in particular, for it is clear that you have never met another elf, nor do you understand anything of our people. The elves of The Hexer live in the woods, which is sadly as close to reality as they get in this tale. At no point are they seen to frolic, nor do they display any noticeable desire to discard their clothing whilst in the forest, except, of course, when an elven woman finds herself in Geirmund's nauseating presence, although this tendency is hardly limited to the Fair Folk. Furthermore, the elves share the immeasurably irritating trait shared by all personages of The Hexer, specifically the inability to converse without effing and blinding like a bloodthirsty pirate who has been wounded in the nether regions._

_This tale has no invention, no thrill, no stir, no semblance to reality; its characters are loathsome and uninteresting in equal measure, the womenfolk have no distinguishing qualities beyond the size of their bosoms, and the finale, which sees all the principal actors perish violently, is very likely to induce the gentle reader to consign the book to the nearest fireplace. I felt no sympathy for their plight; indeed, my sympathy was largely directed towards the sheep, goats, and calves who died to furnish the parchment on which this tome was written._

_I would readily suggest that you find yourself a new occupation at the earliest possible opportunity, for you are manifestly unsuited for the craft of writing._

_Signed, Disgusted of Candlekeep_

Talvi folded up the letter, fixed it with the Candlekeep seal, and was about to head down to the inn to post it when an odious and all-too-familiar sound came through her window.

" _The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny..._ "

_Not this again,_ she thought, scrambling over to the window and sticking her head out. Sure enough, the Chanters had gathered below to recite the prophecies of Alaundo.

" _Chaos shall be sown from their-_ "

"Stop that, stop that!" Talvi cried. "I'm sick of hearing you muppets standing outside my room and chanting your prophecies every single day! Can't you find something better to do?"

The lead Chanter stiffened his back. "It is our sacred duty to recite the prophecies of-"

"Stuff your duty! I mean, what's the point? Either the prophecies come true or they won't; standing there blathering on like a bunch of imbeciles won't change that, will it now?"

There was some murmuring amongst them. "She's got a point, there," said one.

"But what are we to do then, if there's not to be any chanting?" asked another. "We haven't learned how to do anything else!"

"Then go chant in Ulraunt's study or something! Just stop with the racket!"

"What a capital idea!" said the lead chanter. "Surely the Keeper of the Tomes will be thoroughly impressed by our dedication!"

The five of them hurried off while Talvi made her way downstairs and outside, hoping to get her letter to Winthrop before the courier arrived. It was a beautiful day by any measure, with hardly a cloud in the sky and a warm breeze in the air. She stopped for a moment to let the wind blow through her flowing locks, feeling certain that this was one of those days where absolutely nothing could go wrong.

"Heya!"

She turned around to see Imoen jogging towards her with a bright, happy smile on her face. Like Talvi, she had been orphaned at very young age and subsequently raised by Gorion, and having spent most of their lives together, Talvi regarded her more like a sister than as a mere friend. She was sure that Imoen had to have some elven blood in her, for she was one of the few humans who understood the concept of "fun." And while it was Talvi's spellcasting that often got her into trouble, it was Imoen's habitual larceny that made the more strait-laced denizens of Candlekeep curse her name. Important visitors would often find that some of their valuables had gone missing and were thoroughly unrecoverable despite their best efforts at tracking them down. Invariably the missing valuables would turn up in Imoen's hands a few tendays later.

"Whatcha' doin'?" she asked innocently.

"That last book you gave me was terrible, so I wrote a letter to the author containing a lengthy indictment of his work. Maybe now he'll think twice before inflicting another such story on the Realms!"

Imoen put her hands to her hips. "What? Again? That's the fifth one this month!"

"Well you keep giving me bad books! The last one was even worse than the one before...what was it called again?"

" _A Song of Blood and Thunder_ ," Imoen replied proudly. "It's a best-seller from Neverwinter to Calimport!"

"It's rubbish!"

"What about _The Last Law?_ "

"Rubbish."

" _The Iron Remains?_ "

"Rubbish!"

" _The King of Nothing?_ "

"Very bad rubbish!"

Imoen sighed. "You're all buffle-headed! People love this stuff!"

"Well I don't! Now let's go; today's the day Winthrop gets new stock, and you know what that means!"

* * *

What Talvi meant, of course, was wine. Sweet, sweet wine.

Now she was well aware that wine from human vineyards paled in comparison to what elves could create, even though she had only had the opportunity to taste elven wine on a few rare occasions. Still, it was better than the alternative – ale – which was something she would never let past her lips.

The inn itself was small, owing the relatively few guests that Candlekeep played host to. Entering the library fortress required the donation of a tome of great value, and so visitors tended to be rather wealthy. As a result, the inn was kept well-appointed in order to provide for these individuals in the manner to which they were accustomed, but more importantly, it meant that Winthrop always had an ample supply of fine wine, most of which tended to disappear whenever Talvi came around.

She strolled up to the counter and handed Winthrop the rolled-up parchment. "Letter for you!"

Winthrop walked (or rather, waddled) up to her, looking like he had put on a few extra pounds during the past few days. "Another one?"

"Just doing my part to ensure quality literature in the Realms. Now, how about a bottle of Marsember spiced wine?"

Winthrop shrank back a bit. "I, uh, hate to disappoint ye, young one, but there is no more wine."

"What? No wine?"

"Aye, not a drop left in my stores, I'm afraid. Been over a tenday since the last caravan made it here; bandits or some such must've got em'."

Talvi's heart sank. She might have said that a starting the day without wine was like starting the day without getting dressed, though in all honesty she would rather skip the "getting dressed" part. "No wine at all?"

"Well, I got this ol' bottle of stuff 'neath the counter, guess ye might call it wine. Don't think ye would care much for it, bein' dark elf wine and all."

She remained silent, staring at the portly innkeeper. "Where in the Nine Hells did you get drow wine?"

Winthrop laughed. "Wasn't always an innkeeper, don'tcha know. Used to be an adventurer like your father, I did, and one day I was ramblin' through the Underdark when I came across these dark elves, and they were a bunch of mean cusses, let me tell ya! Gave me a right sound thrashing, they did, and next thing I knows one of their matron ladies or whatever they call em' has me tied to the bed, and what happened next, well, it's not for your young ears to hear. Before I went back home she gives me this bottle of wine and tells me it's so I got something to remember her by."

Talvi blinked. "You don't actually expect me to believe that, do you?"

"All of it be true, my friend; I swear on my granddad's grave. 'Course that was a long time ago, and I don't s'pose there's any harm in letting ye have it." Winthrop began rummaging about under the counter, and a few seconds later he slammed a dusty black bottle on the table. It looked like it had been crudely fashioned out of obsidian, and the top of it was sealed with dark red wax, creating the impression that bottle was spattered with blood.

The label was dominated by a single word – _Streea –_ which, if Talvi recalled her studies of the drow language correctly, meant either "suicide" or "to die in Lolth's name." Some additional writing proceeded to assure the reader of the quality of the bottle's contents, as a "painful and prolonged death" awaited any drow winemaker whose products were not up to the absurdly-high standards of the matron mothers. The tasting notes described the wine as being "crisp and forward, with hints of nutmeg, black cherry, licorice, and plums, finishing with the pleasing taste of the tears of slaves whipped upon the altar of the Spider Queen."

She began removing the cork, eliciting a protest from Imoen. "Wait, you can't drink that stuff, Talvi! It's drow wine! What if...what if it makes you _evil?_ "

"Don't be silly, Imoen! Drink doesn't make you evil, though it sure does make Reevor surly. And he's always surly!"

"Never once seen him without his cups," she added. "I bet that's 'cause he needs alcohol to get through the day."

"He's a dwarf! They _all_ need alcohol to get through the day!"

Like most of her kind, Talvi bore an innate hatred for dark elves, and it was her firm belief that they needed to be killed, preferably in large numbers. Still, her curiosity regarding drow wine overrode her dislike of its makers, and Talvi cautiously took a sniff of the bottle's contents. Expecting it to smell like something foul, she was not prepared to find that it had a pleasing bouquet of flowers and peaches.

"It smells like snuggles," she declared after taking another good whiff of it.

Winthrop provided her with a pair of cups, and after pouring the wine Talvi saw to her surprise that it was not the vile black ichor that she expected, but rather a bright pink liquid that fizzed and bubbled. Clearly it had not been made from grapes, since such things did not grow in the Underdark, and after further thought she decided that she would rather _not_ know what it was made from.

Talvi brought the edge of the cup to her lips and slowly tilted it forward, hoping she was not making some terrible mistake.

It was sweet. Very sweet. Almost unbearably so, but on the whole, not unpleasant. She poured Imoen a cup of the drow wine and handed it to her.

"I dunno, Talvi, I still think this is gonna make me evil."

She took a sip, and judging from the expression on her face, Imoen had come to much the same conclusion as Talvi had. "It tastes like rabbits hopping through the forest. This has got to be the sissiest drink I ever had!"

The two women took the cups and bottle and sat themselves by the fireplace. Two terribly well-dressed nobles stood nearby, prattling on about the Candlekeep monks' lack of hospitality, completely oblivious to the monks standing not less than three feet away from them.

"I suspect that dear Winthrop has played a most clever jest upon us," Talvi said. "No drow could possibly have crafted this concoction. You see, this is because wine is a product of a superior civilisation. Indeed, the word 'superior' itself is ultimately derived from ' _superus_ ' meaning 'situated higher than', and it goes without saying that all surface-dwelling races are situated far above the drow. Now, as for why wine is a marker of a superior culture, consider the manner in which grapes do not thrive in cold places, being eminently more suited for warmer climes further south. Naturally, when one feels a touch oppressed by the heat one is not inclined to work very hard, if it all. Thus those who dwell in the warmer regions of Faerûn tend to possess a marked appreciation for leisure, something which stupider folk conflate with laziness. Therefore we can conclude that wine is the creation of a people of a sufficient level of enlightenment to realise that the chief good in life is not work, productivity, or the accumulation of wealth and material goods, but in repose and inactivity. Indeed, the confusion of 'goods' with 'the good life' is one of the most inimical and pernicious disorders of the present age..."

"You know, Talvi, sometimes I think you've spent too much time here." Imoen took another sip of wine. "So if the drow didn't make this stuff, then who did?"

"In all likelihood, someone with a dictionary of the drow language and the desire to use the supposed 'allure' of our benighted Underdark-dwelling cousins to broaden the sales of their product." Talvi then pointed to one particular word on the bottle label. "Look at this egregious error, here – they've used the first-person indicative when they should have used the third-person subjunctive. And I am rather certain that, amongst the drow, the improper conjugation of verbs is grounds for being flayed alive."

Imoen shrugged, not really paying attention. "If you say so. Kinda funny how you know so much about the drow language."

"It's not so difficult to learn. For instance, should you ever be so unfortunate as to encounter a dark elf, you might give them the customary greeting ' _vith'ir_ ', to which they might respond with ' _vith'ir ichl_ ', or, if they wish to be particularly polite, ' _usstan vithus dosst ilhar'._ There's not much to read in this dark tongue, however, since we surface dwellers are rather limited on our access to drow manuscripts and the extant texts are largely devoid of anything that I would consider "art," though some scholarly study has be done on the epic poem ' _L'Valsharess Xuil L'Jatha'laurl Arlyurlen_ ' _..._ "

Before Imoen could respond, there was the sound of the door swinging open, followed by heavy dwarven footfalls. " _Where's that elf?_ "

Talvi turned her head to see the unpleasant sight of Reevor stumbling into the inn, completely drunk as usual. Or maybe this was simply the standard pattern of dwarven behaviour regardless of intoxication or sobriety; she had not been able to reach a conclusion either way.

"You're away without leave, soldier! That damned priest needs his potion racks organised, and he needs it done yesterday! Hop to it! Get moving!"

"Reevor, I wonder when you're going to realise you can't actually order me around."

He reacted as if she had just slapped him in the face. "Don't give me your back-talk, elf! The first and last word out of your filthy sewer ought to be 'sir!' Now get going!"

She wasn't about to back down, however. "I think you're just frightened of me, Reevor, because you subconsciously realise that I am in complete opposition to your entire value system."

Predictably, her words did not improve his demeanour in the slightest. "By Clangeddin's twin axes, ye owe for my storehouse, elf! Get moving before I put ye in the stockade!"

Rolling her eyes, Talvi set down the bottle of wine and stood up. There was no use in arguing with the dwarf; what else could she expect from people who refused to drink wine, and who would be aghast at the prospect of frolicking about the forest in a state of total undress? Not that she _wanted_ to see a dwarf in a state of total undress, of course.

* * *

Candlekeep's priest, a senile old fool who could never remember whether he was supposed to be offering devotions to Oghma or Ilmater, lived in a small house just west of the temple. As a follower of Hanali Celanil, Talvi usually had no business with the man except when someone was in need of healing after one of her spells went awry.

Getting the priest's quarters meant passing by Dreppin and his cows, and the stench of the creatures was immediately apparent to her keen elven senses. What did a library fortress need with dairy livestock, anyway? She quickened her pace to get away from the awful smell.

Talvi continued grumbling to herself as she fought with the stubborn door leading to the priest's abode. Why was Reevor always singling her out for these petty errands? She was an aspiring archmage, not some grunting labourer. Surely one the Watchers would be better suited for this sort of thing, she figured.

Inside was a cluttered mess of potion bottles, scrolls, tomes, and priestly garments in various stages of moth-eaten decay. A half-filled potion rack stood in the far corner, with the remainder of the potions scattered about the room. The first thing she noticed was how it would be impossible to take a single step without walking into a cobweb, leading Talvi to wonder how much time the old priest actually spent here.

The second thing she noticed was the filthy-looking man staring at her, brandishing in a dagger in his right hand and smelling awfully reminiscent of Dreppin's cows.

"Well slap my thighs and call me an ankheg, I've gone and found ye first! You're Gorion's ward, ain't ya?"

_What an utterly atrocious accent!_ Talvi thought. Given the man's slovenly appearance and questionable hygiene, she doubted very much that he belonged in Candlekeep. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The man advanced upon her threateningly. "Doesn't matter who I am, but who _you_ are is mighty important. Seems your head is worth a pile of coin to some folks, so I guess that means you need killin'. Before you die, know that my name's Shank, 'cause shankin' is what I do, and what I do ain't pretty!"

Slowly coming to the realisation that this man intended to do her harm, Talvi sprang back while he leapt at her with his dagger. His clumsy flailing was no match for her elven dexterity, and she easily evaded his frantic slashing and stabbing.

While this was happening Talvi was preparing the mental patterns for a spell, recalling the old wizards' adage " _When in doubt, use fire. And if that fails, use_ more _fire._ " Utterly ignorant of the meaning of her arcane incantations, Shank came at her once more, only to find himself enveloped in fan of flame shooting forth from Talvi's hands.

To her surprise, her assailant caught fire as easily as kindling, and he began screaming and howling in agony as the flames consumed him. She watched in horror as Shank stumbled backwards and crashed into the priest's potion rack, because any as alchemist would tell you, potions tended to use alcohol as a solvent, which possessed the peculiar quality of being highly flammable.

She spun around and sprang through the door just as she heard a loud _fwoosh_ , followed by an intense blast of heat. There was the sound of glass breaking as the windows shattered and gouts of flames started shooting skywards, quickly transforming what had once been a humble abode into a towering inferno. Fuelled by the large number of potions and elixirs strewn about, the fire spread with terrible rapidity until the entire building was ablaze, and already a half-dozen Watchers were en route with a full understanding of just who was responsible. This was, after all, hardly the first building that Talvi had delivered to Kossuth's embrace.

Contrary to expectations, her first thought was not that the terrible understanding that someone wanted her dead, but that Reevor was going to be very cross with her. She looked herself over to ensure that she had not been injured in the fight, then tried desperately to come up with some reason why anyone would want to hurt her.

The conclusion was self-evident: one of her authors to whom she had written her disapproving letters had taken offence at her acerbic analysis, and was now trying to snuff out her unique brand of literary criticism. Talvi wondered what kind of wrathful raconteur would consider murder to be the appropriate response to a few unkind words written about one's artistic endeavours, and she promptly decided that it had the be the vilest and darkest evil that could be unleashed upon the Realms. This was immediately followed by a private declaration that she alone would be the one to stand against this evil, the sole bulwark against the encroaching darkness. "Disgusted of Candlekeep" would not – _could_ not – be silenced.


	2. Over Root and Stone

Chapter 2 – Over Root and Stone

* * *

"Why would anybody want to kill me?"

Talvi's question hung in the air while Gorion paced back and forth, becoming more and more agitated with every step. She had never known her foster-father to get riled up over anything; Gorion had never so much as raised his voice against her no matter what depth of trouble she got herself into, so seeing him like this was profoundly upsetting.

In the hours following the attack, Talvi had been forced to confront the knowledge that she had taken another man's life, and the fact that he had been trying to take hers was of little comfort. She was well aware that many of the spells she knew had been developed specifically for the purpose of wreaking death and destruction, yet it was quite something else to see this purpose realised by her own hand. Talvi felt sullied and tainted, and there was nothing she could do to comfort herself. Violence and bloodshed was almost as alien a concept to her as modesty.

"I've spoken with the Watchers, and they tell me they have no idea how an assassin might have slipped their watch."

She sensed that he wasn't telling her everything. "Please, father, what's happening to this place?

Gorion fixed his eyes on her and began speaking in a tone he reserved for the most serious of situations. "I have never been one to shield you from truths that might be unpleasant, so I will speak plainly: it is no longer safe for us in Candlekeep. I fear that we may have to leave this place very soon."

Just the other day Talvi had expressed her desire to travel beyond these walls, but not in a thousand years would she have imagined it happening like this. "You still haven't told me _why_ someone wants me dead." She began wringing her hands. "It...it's because of all those letters I sent, isn't it?"

Her question only served to agitate Gorion further. "I do not know, and I would prefer not to speculate in the absence of knowledge."

Once again she knew he was withholding information from her, but attempting to pry it out of her foster-father would be like trying to teach table manners to a dwarf. Gorion kept his secrets well.

"Then...what must I do?"

"I fear we may be in for a long journey, so you should get plenty of rest. Be sure to pack whatever things you feel you may need; I will provide with whatever gold I can spare to purchase supplies."

He abruptly ended their conversation and hurried out the door, leaving Talvi alone with her worries. While he spoke little of his past, it wasn't like Gorion to keep her in the dark about matters of the present. That meant the attempt on her life was likely _not_ the result of her eviscerating literary criticism, but something so terrible, so shocking in its enormity that truth of it had to be kept hidden from her.

What that truth was, Talvi would rather not speculate on.

She returned to her room and began looking over her bookshelf, hoping that to find some engrossing tome to take her mind off her troubles. There were several that she had been planning to read through, such as _The Saga of Anastasia the Buxom – A Rashemi Legend,_ _Volo's Guide to All Things Magical_ (Talvi hoped to get a few good laughs out of this one, knowing Volo's often tenuous relationship with the truth), and lastly, _Boatmurdered – A Dwarven Tragedy._

But none of that was very appealing to her at the moment. Instead, she picked out a much drier work dealing with ancient Netherse magic. She had last left off reading up on a particular spell known by the rather enigmatic name of "Uncleftish Sundering." The text described it thus:

_While no one is certain what an "uncleft" is or why it ought to be sundered, arcane scholars generally agree that "uncleftish sundering" was amongst the most powerful forms of enchantment devised by Netherese mages. Occasionally, it is described by a phrase in the Netherese language that translates as "to wield lightning to split the sky." This spell requires several components – a scroll of implosion, several pounds of a rare metal called "wealthstone," along with several pounds of refined pitchblende and a small quantity of fieldstone and blurmote._

_The exact method in which these spell components are to be used is not known. What_ is _known is that this spell causes an immense release of magical energy of sufficient magnitude to annihilate everything within several miles. How, exactly, the caster is supposed to avoid being caught within the blast radius is unknown, although it is likely that this spell was intended to be used from one of the famed Netherese flying cities against their enemies on the surface..._

Talvi closed the book. Her worries were leaving her unable to concentrate on the words, and all she could do was ruminate endlessly on why someone would want her dead. Despite her earlier reasoning she was still not quite prepared to rule out a particularly thin-skinned author as the culprit; artistic types were like that – they were all too willing to vomit bile upon other artists whose works they believed to be inferior, but they reacted with shrill hysterics should anyone dare to criticise them in turn.

Unable to keep her mind off her troubles, she turned to her more practical studies of the arcane. While most aspiring wizards were content to learn spells devised by others, Talvi was for more interested in crafting her own spells. Specifically, she had spent the past few tendays devising a spell that would work as the inverse of the clerics' "Implosion" spell. Upon uttering the proper incantation the target of the spell would experience an extremely rapid increase in volume, resulting in it being blasted apart with intense force in a fraction of a second. She named the spell "Talvi's Bursting Blast," and she predicted that it would, with further refinements, find use in demolishing castle walls during a siege or assisting miners in carving new passages into the rock. One could use it against an attacking monster, she reckoned, though this was likely to make a terrible mess.

Unfortunately, Gorion had forbidden her from any further experimentation without his direct supervision after she had nearly blasted one of Candlekeep's turrets to pieces, and Talvi doubted he would approve of this particular line of research. Further development of her talents would necessitate travelling elsewhere, but after the attempt on her life, the walls of the library fortress, which had hitherto been so stifling and confining, now seemed like the only thing protecting her from a cold and hostile world. Yet whoever wanted her dead was not going to give up after one failed effort, and if one would-be assassin could make it past the walls and Watchers, another could surely do the same. Leaving this place might be her only option.

_And what of Imoen?_ Talvi hated the thought of leaving her only friend behind. She could ask Gorion if she might come with them, but somehow she already knew what the answer would be.

From the moment she had cast her very first spell, Talvi had dreamed of becoming an archmage. Reaching that point would be a long and arduous journey, one which had she dubbed "The Witch Path," because it sounded like something an elven archmage would call her trials and tribulations. She reassured herself that her unplanned departure from Candlekeep was just another step along The Witch Path, albeit one that was coming much sooner than she would have preferred.

* * *

Having spent the last few days travelling by foot along The Coast Way, Sarevok was beginning to regret his decision to spend every waking hour in full armour.

Not only did it chafe terribly, the heat of the sun made him feel as though he were being roasted alive. The combination of sweat and accumulated grime resulted in Sarevok leaving a rather pungent bouquet in his wake, which was no doubt the reason his companions chose to walk beside rather than behind him. Some might have suggested that he don his armour only when battle was at hand, but few in the Realms possessed the courage to gainsay his fashion choices.

This particular suit of armour had been built to his exacting specifications by the finest smith in Baldur's Gate. Some would say that the numerous spikes, horns, and teeth adorning the greaves, gauntlets, pauldrons, and helm were completely gratuitous and worse, had an irritating tendency to snag on bits of furniture and the like. But practicality was a distant concern next to intimidation, and to that end his armour served its purpose marvellously. In fact, Sarevok was so pleased with it that, after its completion, he had ordered its maker killed so that no one else could ever have anything remotely similar, which also relieved him of the burden of having to pay for it.

Every so often Tamoko would look his way with a curious expression, and he soon grew irritated. "Speak, woman! I tire of your questioning gaze."

"Milord, would it not have been faster to travel on horseback?"

She had courage, he had to admit, to criticise him like this. Tamoko was always suggesting less bloody solutions to his problems, oftentimes going so far as to advocate the actual _avoidance_ (as opposed to the gleeful embrace) of the act of murder. Was she unaware of what he was? Did not she not know that he was the future Lord of Murder?

"Yes, and it would be easier if everything were handed to us, without having to struggle for it! If I say we walk, we walk!"

Sarevok longed for the day when he no longer needed to rely on others to carry out his will. The Iron Throne was the worst of them; did those fools truly think their wealth gave them power? It would not save them when he closed his hand around their necks.

But first, he had to deal with his siblings, or rather, one sibling in particular – a prissy elf named Talvi who lived in Candlekeep. He had caught sight of her during his last visit to the library fortress and developed in an immediate hatred for her. His plan depended upon eliminating all of Bhaal's brood save for himself, but more importantly, he had always wanted to murder an elf by his own hand. They were all so insufferably arrogant, so ageless and superior, yet they still died when one stabbed them enough times. He had already sent two assassin to deal with her, but Rieltar's scrying had revealed that the first had stupidly gotten himself killed, and the second had somehow gotten lost along the way and found himself in Neverwinter of all places. How he had accomplished this feat – in particular the manner in which he had travelled hundreds of miles in just over a day – was something Sarevok would rather not dwell on.

While the girl herself posed no threat to him, her foster-father Gorion was a wizard of some skill. Thus he had brought several hired thugs along with him, knowing that the best strategy for overcoming a hostile spellcaster was to throw fodder at them until they had exhausted their arcane abilities, at which point one could simply run them through. Gorion's ward would be helpless then, and her death would be swift, violent, and bloody.

The mere thought of murder was enough to make him quiver in excitement. "Once we have slain Gorion's whelp, I have half a mind to burn Candlekeep to ashes!"

Once again, Tamoko did not know when to keep her mouth shut. "Milord, how can one burn a fortress of stone?"

Sarevok grumbled to himself. He didn't know why he kept this woman around, save for some misbegotten sense of sentimentality. Perhaps he had felt affection for her once, but that was before he started studying the prophecies of Bhaal in earnest...before he had come to the realisation that being the Lord of Murder did not allow one to form attachments (as it interfered with that whole "murder death kill" routine).

By his estimation, they would reach Candlekeep by tomorrow evening. They would need a valuable book to gain entry, in their case, it was an iron-bound tome titled _An Anthology of Erotic Dwarven Verse,_ whose covers were kept closed by a heavy chain and lock so that no one might accidentally read its contents. Once they had infiltrated the library fortress it was simply a matter of finding Gorion's ward and killing her, preferably in the bloodiest, messiest manner imaginable. She would be the first Bhaalspawn to die by his hand, just one of thousands upon thousands who would drown in a sea of blood until none but he remained.

* * *

The following morning Talvi found herself confronted by a task she had been dreading – telling Imoen that she was leaving Candlekeep, quite possibly for good.

She did not expect her to find out for herself, as Talvi soon discovered when Imoen ambushed her outside the central keep.

"What's all this about you _leaving?_ " Imoen rarely got worked up over anything, but the prospect of being left behind had clearly upset her. "Why didn't you tell me you were gonna leave?"

"Gorion told you, did he?"

"I read it in that letter..." She stopped, realising she had said too much. "I mean, uh..."

Talvi sighed. "You stole something from him, didn't you?"

"I didn't steal it!" Imoen protested, putting her hands to her hips. "I just looked at it! And it said that you and Gorion were gonna leave today."

"Who was it from?"

Imoen shrugged. "Didn't say. It was real hard to read, too, 'cause the writing was so messy."

"All right, I'll ask Gorion if you can come.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be silly! Gorion wouldn't even let you finish. But I'm not going to wait here while you get to have all the fun, no ma'am!"

Talvi knew her well enough to know what she intended. "Don't do anything foolish, Imoen! If you leave Candlekeep, then they'll never let you back in without Gorion around."

"And if Gorion's gone, what's to stop those monks from throwing me out, huh? Not going to be much to do without you around, anyway, and I figure something bad might happen to you out there."

If Imoen wanted to follow her out of Candlekeep, then there was no force in the Realms that was going to keep her from doing exactly that. "All right, if you're going to follow me, you should buy some equipment first. And I do mean _buy_ , not steal!"

She gave Talvi a pouting look. "I never stole nothing in my life!"

"I sincerely hope that is a joke, otherwise you powers of self-reflection are truly dismal to behold..."

Earlier that morning, Gorion had given her some gold and told her to purchase whatever she felt she needed for her journey. They would be leaving under the cover of night, so she had all day to pack her things – not that Talvi had much in the way of material possessions. Her foster-father was still tight-lipped about the plot against her life, and she could not understand why he was not more forthcoming. She was not some child who needed to be kept sheltered from the unpleasant realities of life, or so she liked to believe.

She walked into the Candlekeep Inn, shaking a few gold coins in her hand. Looking back, this was the first she had ever had any actual money to her name. Winthrop sold sundry goods, such as arms and armour, but little of that was of use to her. Talvi had no skill at all when it came to fighting, and armour was anathema to wizards. Perhaps she might purchase a dagger for defence, although a situation would have to be truly dire if she were reduced to flailing about with a bladed weapon.

Winthrop greeted her with a hearty smile as he always did, which help ease her anxiety a bit. "Why hello there! Gorion tells me you're packin' for a trip! Got to be crazy, I say! I heard the roads out there are _murder!_ "

And then, all of a sudden, her worries came flooding back.

"Um...I suppose I should have something to defend myself." Having spent most of her life studying the arcane arts, Talvi knew next to nothing about what sort of weapon was appropriate in any particular situation.

"Ye ever held a blade before?"

Talvi looked about sheepishly. "...no?"

"Ye ever been in a fight or a brawl or a dust-up?"

"Not until yesterday."

Winthrop thoughts things over for a few seconds, then reached under the counter and deposited a small dagger on the table. "This be your safest bet, methinks. The pointy end goes in your foe, so don't be grabbin' it by the blade. Though that probably goes without saying..."

She was not in the mood for his ribbing. "Anything else I should take with me?"

"Well, there was this shortbow I was gonna sell ya, but it's...uh...gone missing. Ye wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would ye?"

"I have no idea," she replied, knowing _exactly_ who was responsible.

After purchasing a waterproof (and fireproof) case for any magic scrolls she happened across, Talvi went to pack her belongings, which consisted mainly of books of arcane lore, dead languages, elven mythology, and some lighter reading consisting of lengthy dissertations on the nature of the Weave. After packing her things, there was little else to do except wait for nightfall. To pass the time, Talvi decided to have another go at _The Hexer,_ telling herself that she was simply trying to suss out whatever it was about this story that appealed to Imoen. In truth, she was just reading it for a laugh; to see how absurd it could get. She flipped the book open to a random page:

_"_ _Stay away from my daughter while you're in our village, hexer." The mayor's daughter_ _stood just outside the room_ _._ _Her dress displayed generous cleavage._ _"_ _You're here to deal with the ogre, that's all!"_

_"You have nothing to fear from me," Geirmund consoled him badassfully._

_"I know your reputation, hexer! The womenfolks' clothes just fall off wherever you go! If you so much as touch my daughter, I'll have you strung up by your innards!"_

_"There's no need to shout."_

_The mayor shook his head. "Sorry, hexer, I'm just in a bit of a bad mood. I can't sleep over the sound of my neighbour beating his wife."_

_"Any_ _one_ _else I should talk to about the ogre?" Geirmund asked badassfully._

_"_ _Well," said the mayor, "you could try talking to_ _Willem_ _, the town rapist."_

_"The what?"_

_"The town rapist. Don't worry, he usually restricts himself to livestock. Usually."_

Like all scholars of Candlekeep, Talvi considered the destruction of the written word to be an affront. But she was almost willing to make an exception for this book. On the back cover, some shameless hustler had reprinted a number of quotes in praise of the story, no doubt, Talvi reckoned, from individuals with rather dubious taste in literature:

_"_ _Brilliant – a blood-soaked journey that obliterates all pathetic pre-existing pretensions of morality." - Sarevok Anchev, Baldur's Gate_

_"A glittering gem amidst a dreary sea of mediocrity. A novel that recognises the doomed state of the world and all who dwell within it._ The Hexer _shows life as it truly is – an unending, inescapable mire of pain and misfortune where there_ _is no hope, no_ _succour, no release, just a remorseless march into the misery and suffering that underlies all existence." - Xan, Evereska_

_"_ _A hard, remorseless tale that exposes "civilisation" for the pathetic sham that it is._ The Hexer _drags the reader kicking and screaming into harsh, merciless reality." - Bishop, Neverwinter_

"I do hope I never meet these cretins," she muttered to herself before stuffing the book into her pack.

* * *

She found Gorion by the steps of the central keep, looking uncharacteristically harried. The second he saw her he began hurrying towards the main gate, barely allowing her to keep up.

"We must hurry; I fear we have wasted too much time already. The other side is likely to move very soon, so we must find some place to hide ourselves for the time being. The city of Baldur's Gate would offer sanctuary amidst its teeming throngs, or perhaps the woods might shelter us from our pursuers..."

His refusal to explain anything to her was utterly baffling and frustrating in equal measure. "'Other side'? What are you talking about? Would you just please tell me what's going on, father?"

Gorion ignored her protests. "Listen carefully: if the worst should happen and we become separated, then you _must_ make your way north to the Friendly Arm Inn. Some old friends of mine – Khalid and Jaheira – are waiting there, and I have no doubt they will aid you."

Talvi remembered hearing Gorion speak of those people sometime long ago; they may have even visited Candlekeep on occasion, but she could not put faces to the names. She continued to demand that he stop and explain things to her, but he continued to ignore her as he strode through the Candlekeep gatehouse without even bothering to speak to any of the Watchers at their posts.

"Don't worry, I will explain everything as soon as there is time. For now, let us make all haste away from this place. The woods may be dangerous, but I believe we will be safer staying far afield of the roads."

To that end, he immediately turned way from the well-worn path leading to the gatehouse and began leading her across the field towards the edge of the woods. The Watchers had cut down all trees within a certain distance of Candlekeep's walls to keep any possible assailants from using the forest as cover, a precaution that had always struck Talvi as thoroughly unnecessary.

With no moon, the pair soon found themselves shrouded in near total darkness, though being an elf Talvi could see much further in low light than humans. Gorion must have had some spell to grant a similar ability, she reasoned, because he moved through the night as if it were day.

She had always imagined that he first steps outside of Candlekeep would have been a touch more ostentatious, as opposed to skulking away in the dark. And the woods were a place that she believed to be the natural place for her kind, yet when she stepped beneath the cover of the treetops Talvi did not feel at home. Rather, the forest felt threatening and hostile – surely not a place where she might throw off her clothes and frolic as she had always longed to do. In the past she had tried throwing off her clothes and frolicking about the Candlekeep grounds on occasions, though this always upset the monks for some inexplicable reason. How could people who were supposedly so learned be so shocked by the naked female body?

Somewhere off in the distance Talvi heard the sound of howling wolves and the shrieking of some creatures she couldn't identify. Fear was tightening its grip on her heart, and she wished more than anything else that she were back in the safety and security of Candlekeep. But it wasn't safe any longer, was it?

It was surprising how a man as old as Gorion could move over root and stone so quickly. His exact age was something he had never spoken of, though he had to be quite aged given that he looked no different now than he had when Talvi had been but a few years old. He had raised her on a thousand tales of high adventure, derring-do, and romance, but he had always left his own exploits untold. From what the other monks had told her, Gorion had once had dealings with Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun and Elminster "Shut yer gob, ye daft old bugger" Aumar. Perhaps he did not speak of those days so that she did not get some foolish idea into her head about going off on an adventure of her own.

She stopped for a second and looked back, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lights of Candlekeep in the distance. There was nothing to see but darkness, however, and while they were only a few miles away from home by her estimation, they may as well have been on the opposite side of Toril. Imoen had vowed to follow her, a plan that now struck Talvi as monumentally foolish. She would not be able to keep up with them, and she would find herself alone with no way of getting back into Candlekeep.

The pair continued onwards over holt and heath, moving at such a pace that Talvi's legs began to ache. Still she did not dare complain, and every time she so much as uttered a single word Gorion would silence her with a gesture of his hand.

Without warning he came to an abrupt halt and signalled her to stop. Gorion began listening about intently.

They were in a small clearing, and for reasons she could not explain, Talvi felt very vulnerable all of a sudden. Those reasons became all too clear when there was a rustling from the edge of the clearing and an armoured figure stepped forward.

Were she not terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought, Talvi might have laughed at this man for his ludicrous appearance. When he had gone to have his armour made, she figured, his instructions to the maker must have been very specific. "Make it evil," he would have said. "Make it abundantly clear that anyone wearing this armour is bad news indeed. Let it impress upon all who see it that anyone who stands against the wearer will die very painfully and messily. If that means covering it with all manner of spikes and horns and teeth, then so be it."

"You move fast for an old man," said the armoured fiend, his voice deep and resounding. Whoever he was, this person stood almost a head taller than Gorion, and his eyes glowed with a burning, baleful light. "You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt!"

Evidently, their assailant had not come alone. Three more people emerged from the darkness, two dirty-looking men followed by a woman whose features immediately identified her as an inhabitant of Kara-Tur.

Gorion was defiant, despite looking pitifully outmatched compared to their foes. "Do you truly think I would be so foolish as to believe your words?"

"No, I didn't think you would," answered the armoured man. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping you'd resist. We've been walking for miles, and it'd be a shame if we couldn't indulge in some good old-fashioned bloodshed."

As if to emphasise the "walking for miles" bit, a sudden breeze blew through the clearing, giving both Talvi and Gorion and a good whiff of their enemies' pungent aroma.

Unwilling to let their attackers make the first move (or simply disgusted with their foul stench), Gorion began casting a spell. A half-second later a ball of fire shot forth from his hands and exploded a short distance away with a deafening roar. The blast sent their assailants flying in all directions; all, that is, save for the man in the ridiculous suit of armour. Standing amidst the flaming branches and undergrowth, he drew a sword that every bit as absurd as his armour and charged at Gorion.

Talvi's foster-father glanced over at her, his face a mixture of terror and resignation. "Run, child! Get out of here!" Once more he cast a spell at the armoured man, a brilliant bolt of lightning that ought to have incinerated even the mightiest of creatures, yet did nothing except slow the brute down a bit.

Her mind was fixed on standing by Gorion in this fight, considering it the vilest imaginable cowardice to flee when his life was in danger. But her body had other ideas; specifically, to turn and flee at the swiftest speed she could muster.

Through the woods she ran, the branches and twigs whipping her in the face. Behind her she could still hear the sounds of battle as Gorion unleashed the full might of his magic, a thundering cacophony of explosions and crackles of lightning. Every part of her was screaming at her to turn back, but her legs were having none of it as they continued to convey her through the forest.

Then, the sounds of combat ceased, and Talvi knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Gorion had fallen. The horror of this revelation was eclipsed only by the realisation that her attacker would be coming for her now.

Looking back just for a moment, she stumbled over a root and landed hard on her side. Imagining her pursuer was just seconds from catching up to her, Talvi ignored the pain and scrambled back to her feet.

_This...this is just a bad dream,_ she told herself. _Any second now I'll wake up and things will be just as they were._ But the pain in her side and the aching in her lungs put the lie to any such foolish notions. She continued to run until she could not run any more, and when she stopped to catch her breath she discovered, to her utter horror, that she was now alone and lost, with absolutely no idea where she was and with no one to help her.

* * *

Sarevok gazed down at the bloody corpse of Gorion, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction at a job well done. It had been far too long since the fates had given him the opportunity to put his skill as a Deathbringer to good use, and what better target was there for his rage than some meddlesome Harper? He began wiping the blood off his blade, a weapon he had dubbed the "Sword of Chaos" (Sarevok wasn't very imaginative when it came to naming things), smugly reassuring himself of his own superiority as was his wont, when it slowly dawned upon him that Gorion's contemptible little whelp had escaped. As she was the one he had intended to murder in the cruellest and most violent fashion imaginable, this naturally put a damper on his good mood.

He turned around and looked for his followers. Tamoko had narrowly avoided being burnt to ashes by Gorion's fireball, but the other hired thugs had not fared as well. In truth, this worked out well for him, as it meant he would no longer have to pay them.

"Gorion's ward..." Tamoko began, grimacing in pain as she got to her feet.

"She got away," he growled. When the battle-frenzy was upon him, the rest of the world simply faded away, and while he was busy hacking Gorion to pieces he had failed to see which way his foster-child had gone.

"The beasts of the forest will kill her quickly."

"Should we rely on nature to do our work for us? Like _druids?_ "

Tamoko shrank back in fright. Anyone who wished to earn Sarevok's ire could hardly do worse than to mention druids within earshot. Those who were foolish enough to bring up the matter would be subjected to a lengthy rant and, if Sarevok were in a particularly bloody-minded mood (which was always), a savage beating. Endless prattling on about "nature" and "balance," possessing a self-righteousness that rivalled that of the worst breed of paladins...druids had a lot to answer for. Once he ascended as the new Lord of Murder, his first commandment to his followers (who were sure to be legion) would be to seek out and slaughter every druid in the Realms.

"She could not have run far, milord," Tamoko said. "We could still catch her."

"We do not know in which direction she went. But there are only two places she might go from here: north to the Friendly Arm Inn, or south to Beregost. You must head south and ensure that we have agents in all major cities along the Coast Way...and I expect you to hire _competent_ bounty hunters this time! I don't know where you found the last two, but they could barely tell one end of a blade from another! The first got himself killed, and the second is now pinching the buttocks of waitresses at the Moonstone Mask in Neverwinter! Fail me again, Tamoko, and your suffering will know no bounds."

This wasn't the first time she had failed him, nor was it the first time he had uttered that particular threat. Now that he thought about it, it wasn't even the second, third, fourth, or fifth time, either.


	3. Devils and Wizards

Chapter 3 – Devils and Wizards

* * *

When she was reasonably sure that none of her attackers were following her, Talvi came to a stop just near the edge of well-worn road. As she felt safe for the moment, she decided to gather her wits and collect her thoughts.

This was perhaps not quite the right thing to do, because when the true enormity of her situation became apparent, the first thing Talvi did was burst into tears.

Gorion, her foster-father, the one who had raised from her a mewling babe into a beautiful young woman, was dead. He had died defending her, giving her enough time to flee before their unknown attacker had cut him down.

_Hand over your ward,_ were his words. He wanted her dead, but why? That was the question that ran through her mind as she sat sobbing beneath a tree. She had never hurt anyone in her life, save for that assassin who tried to kill her the other day, so what possible reason could someone have to kill her? Her first suspicion was that it was tied to Gorion's past, that someone he had wronged had come seeking revenge by slaying his foster-child.

Her second suspicion was that this had nothing to do with Gorion at all, and everything to do with her. Since she had spent nearly all her life at Candlekeep, it must have something to do with her life prior to Candlekeep. But Gorion had never said so much as a single word regarding that time, and whatever he knew of it had died with him.

She sat there beneath the oak, hopelessly inconsolable in her grief, wanting nothing more than to just curl up and die. Sorrow soon turned to anger, and her mind swirled with violent thoughts about taking vengeance upon the one responsible for Gorion's death. Thoughts of blood and death and murder, thoughts that were shocking in their vividness and viscerality. So shocked was she at these malevolent musings that it momentarily shook her from her mourning. Never in her life had she ever experienced thoughts of a violent nature, save for one or two occasions when she had been confronted with a particularly execrable piece of literature.

Drying her eyes, Talvi stood up, wondering what course to take. Gorion's body lay some distance behind her, and the thought of leaving it to the scavengers was too horrid to contemplate. But she doubted she could find her way back to the ambush site, and there was the possibility that her attackers were still in the area. As disgusted as it made her feel, there was no choice but to go on and hope that Imoen was unharmed, wherever she was.

Unable to bear thinking about Gorion's murder any longer, she turned her thoughts towards the man responsible. His violent behaviour and ridiculous armour were clear attempts at concealing the total vacuity at his core; there was little doubt that he did not possess anything resembling a rich inner life.

There was a rustling from the woods as someone approached rapidly. Talvi sprang to her feet, expecting to be attacked, only to see Imoen emerge from the undergrowth, looking dirty and dishevelled.

"Imoen!" she cried. "Oh, thank the gods!" Talvi was so overjoyed that she threw her arms around her , as if she were an old friend she hadn't seen in ages. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"I'm fine," she answered, brushing the dirt off her clothes. "But I...I saw what happened to Gorion, and I...I am _so_ sorry! I knew something bad was gonna happen to you out here, so-"

She couldn't stand to speak of the matter, and thought it would be best if they wasted as little time as possible extricating themselves from the wilderness. "Look, it's not safe for us out here! Before we left Candlekeep, Gorion told me to meet some old associates of his at the Friendly Arm Inn. We...we need to hurry..."

To the east the first light of the sun was slowly ascending over the treetops, and while the dawn should have been comforting, it provided Talvi no solace. Not until now had she ever seen death at such close a distance. Being an elf, she was always aware that she would outlive nearly everyone she knew by centuries, but to have the reality of mortality thrust upon her in such a bloody and violent fashion was too much for her to bear.

"But who would want to kill Gorion?" Imoen wondered aloud. "He never hurt no one, 'least as far as I could tell."

"They weren't after him, they were after _me._ He...he sacrificed himself for me, and we...we must honour that sacrificing by bringing his killer to justice!" But there was not an ounce of conviction in her voice, and she had no idea how she might go about finding Gorion's murderer, let alone deliver him his just deserts.

For now, merely surviving was their greatest concern. The roads were plagued with bandits, or so she had heard, and that wasn't speaking of the ravenous wolves and gibberlings that dwelt in the area. Still, they were not completely defenceless – Talvi had her spells and Imoen had a bow and short sword that she had filched from the Candlekeep Inn. That said, neither of them had any combat experience whatsoever, and Talvi theorised that should they encounter particularly vigorous opposition they would have no choice but to flee.

They were given the chance to test that theory when an ogre, all full of piss and vinegar, leapt out at them the trees bordering the road. Rather appropriately, "piss and vinegar" quite accurately described the pungent aroma wafting off of the brute. Its hide was a sickly yellow colour, covered in a patchwork suit of armour consisting of various scraps of leather and metal crudely sewn together, and it was swinging a mace that was little more than a wooden club with nails driven into it.

Talvi sprang back, narrowly avoiding having her skull staved in, while Imoen hurriedly drew an arrow from her quiver. The ogre, bellowing something in its own guttural language that was no doubt highly obscene, was struck by a sudden fit of indecision. It could not choose which woman it wanted to attack, and in its moment of hesitation, Imoen let loose an arrow that struck the ogre squarely between the eyes, burrowing itself a good two inches or so into its skull.

This, naturally, did absolutely nothing to stop their attacker.

Perhaps out of stupidity, or perhaps some innate hatred of all elvenkind, the ogre ignored Imoen and charged at Talvi, totally disrespectful of her arcane powers. Already she was forming the eldritch patterns in her mind, speaking the proper incantation, making the requisite motions with her hands...

...and just like the assassin in Candlekeep, the ogre wound up running furiously into a fan of flame. Its whole frame caught fire with astonishing rapidity – Talvi guessed that it this was due to the large amount of grease on its armour – and it flailed and thrashed about for a few seconds before falling to the ground, where it continued writhing and howling until at last it lay still.

Having narrowly escaped a gruesome death for the second time this day, Talvi wanted nothing more than to hurry on her way. But Imoen spied something off to the side of the road and went to investigate.

"That ol' ogre must've been robbing people!" she exclaimed, holding up a dirty cloth sack that rattled loudly when shook. "All their stuff's in here!"

Imoen's larcenous tendencies had to run deep indeed, Talvi figured, if the bloody murder of her foster-father was not enough to restrain them. Amongst the ogre's ill-gotten gains were a few gold coins, some rusted and battered weaponry, and most curiously, an ornate leather belt.

"Huh, wonder why he'd keep this," she mused.

"Look, we need to keep moving! We've got to get to the Friendly Arm Inn before the day is done, and-"

She stopped mid-sentence, sensing some rather odd about the belt Imoen had stolen from the ogre's stash. Even standing several feet away she could sense a powerful dweomer surrounding it, though its exact nature would require further examination.

"Be careful! There's great magic in that girdle and I have no idea what kind, so don't go putting it on or anything!"

Imoen gave her a pouting look. "I wasn't gonna!"

"Now let's go, before someone else decides to come along and kill us."

* * *

It was quite indicative of her despondent state of mind that, despite the bright, cloudless sky and sylvan landscape surrounding her, Talvi felt only a slight desire at that moment to throw off her clothes and frolic in the woods. Travelling northwards, they met not a single, solitary soul on the road until they were approached by a strange old man wearing dirty red robes and a wide-brimmed hat. He sported a snow-white beard of such length that Talvi doubted it had ever been trimmed, a look she associated more with dwarves than humans and which struck her as quaintly ridiculous. He smoked some noxious-smelling herb out of a long, curved pipe, and judging by the eye-watering cloud hanging about his person the old man must have been consuming a great quantity of it.

"Ho there, wanderer," said the man in a tone usually reserved for doting grandparents, "stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man."

While he appeared to be little more than a harmless wandering hermit (or vagrant), Talvi did not fail to notice that aura of magic that surrounded him. "What...what do you want?" she asked, unable to conceal her suspiciousness.

"Oh, 'tis naught but the fact that it hath been nigh unto a tenday since I have seen a soul walking this lonesome road. Travelling seemeth to be the realm of the desperate or the deranged, so might I ask which pertains to thee?"

There was something not quite right about this man, though she was quite incapable of putting it into words. "Not to imply anything unseemly, but I might ask the same of you. You seem unaware of the changes in Common that have taken place over the centuries, for one thing. So either you are several centuries old – and since you are not an elf you would therefore have to be a wizard of immense power and understanding – or you are deliberately inserting archaisms into your speech in an attempt to elevate it to a register far beyond what it deserves."

To her surprise, the old man gave an approving nod. "Ah, I see thou art an elf through and through – thou dost not speak with one word when thou couldst speak with five hundred instead. Thy father Gorion did say as much. But I have spoken overmuch, and I know thy friends await thee at the Friendly Arm."

Talvi was about to ask how he knew Gorion, but she had barely uttered one word before the old man went on his way, mumbling incoherently to himself.

"Who was _that_ guy?" said Imoen. "I think he was smoking some black lotus. Gorion sure had some strange friends."

"Let us hope we meet no more of these 'characters' on our journey! I am not in a terribly trusting mood at the moment..."

Having spent all their lives within Candlekeep, the two women were completely unprepared at how vast the world beyond was. Glancing at her map, the Friendly Arm Inn did not seem so far away, but by the time Talvi caught sight of it in the distance she felt as though she had walked halfway across Faerûn.

The sun's light was beginning to fade when they drew near to the inn, although it hardly looked like what she would call an "inn." Its appearance was far more akin to a fortress, with a high, central keep surrounded by a wall featuring crenellated battlements and arrow loops and punctuated with wide, square towers. Those entering the premises did so through a gatehouse and drawbridge, where two lightly-armoured men stood guard, along with several archers patrolling up top. Given the violence she had experienced throughout the day, the inn exuded a sense of safety and security which she found most reassuring. Unfortunately, the whole look of the place was quite ugly, standing as a perfect example of the depressing human tendency towards a utilitarian aesthetic. Had an elf built this place, she reckoned, it would have been far more pleasing to the eye.

As they approached the lowered drawbridge, one of the guards signalled them to stop by raising his right hand. "Good evening to you, milady," he said, his polite tone standing in stark contrast to his rough appearance. "I must admit, it's been many a year since I've seen an elf dressed so finely coming this way. I trust you know the rules of conduct for all guests?"

"And what sort of rules are there here?"

"Perhaps 'rules' is a touch too formal, milady. But the Mirrorshades have made it clear these are neutral grounds, where all grievances are to be left at the gates. If grievances come in, then you will go out. It is as simple as that."

The grounds surrounding the keep were almost deserted at this hour, though a few shabbily-clothed peasants were ambling about aimlessly. To the west were a number of small stone houses, indicating that more than a few people called this place their home. It was all quite reminiscent of Candlekeep, with stables, cattle pens, and hay bales surrounding the keep, giving off a distinctive odour that could politely be described as "pastoral." To the side was a temple dedicated to the gnomish god Garl Glittergold, though Talvi doubted he could have many worshippers in these parts.

"I got a bad feeling about this place, Talvi," Imoen said.

"Nonsense. We are perfectly safe here; with all these armed men about the powers of the Nine Hells themselves could not take this place."

Before Imoen could reply, a man dressed in dark robes approached them. "Excuse me, my good ladies, might I have a moment of your time?" He had an unsettling, lascivious look in his eyes, and Talvi feared that he was yet another "character" out to harass her.

"What is it?" she said curtly. "Can't you see I'm in a terrible hurry?"

"How terribly rude!" said the strange man, recoiling in mock offence. "No, really, that is quite impolite of you. If I were not already going to kill you, I would do so just to teach you some manners."

It slowly dawned on her that this man intended to do her harm, a realisation only bolstered by the unmistakable sound of an arcane incantation emerging from his mouth. Once again she was availed by her superior elven reflexes, and in a split-second she drew her dagger and thrust it at her attacker.

"Have at you!"

Not being a very strong sort, Talvi was unable to inflict much injury with her blade, but it was enough to disrupt his incantation, replacing the final word with a loud squeal of pain.

At that exact instant, there was a tremendous release of magical energy, throwing Talvi, Imoen, and their assailants backwards a good several feet. The ground beneath them began to shake violently, and when Talvi returned to her senses she saw to her utter horror that a rupture in the very fabric of reality itself appeared to forming directly in front of them. The rift grew steadily, revealing a swirling red mass through which one could make out the hideous and twisted shapes of devil-kind, who had not taken kindly to this sudden disturbance, to say the least. A blast of sulphurous air issued forth from the newly-formed portal, followed an immense pair of scaly red claws.

Talvi and Imoen scrambled to their feet just as the terrifying visage of a pit fiend emerged. Standing over twelve feet tall, wreathed in smoke and fire, the creature let out a frightful bellow so thunderous that it shook the ground.

" _WHO DARES CALL FORTH Y'GRAXX'THULL CORPSEGNAWER?_ "

The inn guards, rightly considering this foe beyond any of them, turned and fled as fast as their legs could carry them while the dark-robed man tried in vain to recite another incantation.

Talvi stood there, frozen in terror. She had seen illustrations of the denizens of the Nine Hells in countless tomes, but it was quite another thing to lay eyes upon one herself. Wrapped in a pair of blood-red wings and adorned with a massive pair of horns, the pit fiend resembled a monstrous conjoining of human and dragon. A steady stream of venom dripped from its fangs while its long, prehensile tail swung about in excitement at the prospect of unleashing some seriously bloody carnage on the Prime Material Plane.

Its anger, however, was directed towards the most unfortunate individual who had accidentally summoned it. The pit fiend snatched up their hapless attacker with one of its mighty claws and held him aloft. " _FOOLISH MORTAL, YOUR SOUL SHALL FEED ME IN BAATOR!_ "

It then retreated through the portal, the dark-robed man screaming and howling all the while, and when the pit fiend vanished the portal collapsed a moment later with a deafening _boom._

Once more all was silent. Talvi and Imoen exchanged astonished looks, having just received a perfect object lesson at just how terribly awry a spell could go. Luckily for them, the fiendish incursion had been of such a brief duration that it had gone unnoticed by the majority of the inn's patrons, and anyone who had seen it would find his account of the event to be taken as complete codswallop by anyone he told it to.

"Well, now you see why magic is something that must be done properly," Talvi remarked, dusting herself off. "It would seem that even a simple misread incantation can bring the Hells down upon you. Gorion was right to condemn sorcerers for their lack of study!"

They hurried inside the inn, not wanting to deal with any unwanted questions from those who had witnessed their fleeting encounter with the Lower Planes. Their relief was palpable when they entered onto the ground floor, as it was warm, brightly lit, and filled with sounds of mirth and carefree revelry. It stood in sharp contrast with the inn's foreboding exterior architecture, and Talvi found her anxiety fading noticeably after but a few short moments.

"Who are we looking for again?" Imoen asked.

"Two friends of Gorion named Khalid and Jaheira. I don't know how we'll recognise them, but I'm sure we'll stumble upon them soon enough."

The inn was absolutely packed with guests, some of whom had laid out bedrolls on the floor. Judging from their apparel, all types were represented here, from lowly commoners to knights and noblemen. At the far end was the innkeeper himself, a well-dressed gnome standing in front of a counter that was taller than he was. He looked to have been a prolific adventurer in his day, with numerous artefacts and curios from his travels on display, and along the walls he had hung several impressive pieces of artwork depicting, among other things, the Netherese city of Undrentide and Corellon Larethian striking down Lolth with a flaming sword (Talvi particularly approved of the latter).

She saw someone approach her from out of the corner of her eye. "You are Gorion's ward?" The voice was deep and carried a strange accent.

The woman it belonged to was clearly a fighting sort, as indicated by her battered leather armour and the sword at her side. She had long, unkempt brown hair and bore a stern, disapproving look on her face, but what Talvi noticed first were her pointed elven ears, yet distinctly human features. It took her a few moments to realise that this woman was a half-elf.

"Yes, I am Talvi Korpela," she replied, trying to sound proud and failing quite miserably, "and this is Imoen."

"Well met," said the woman, attempting to appraise Talvi with a glance, and going by her expression, she seemed to find her wanting. "I am Jaheira, and this is my husband Khalid."

She gestured to a Calshite man standing behind her who, like his wife, looked to be the fighting type. He too was a half-elf, with dusky skin and dark red hair, and he continually looked about the room nervously, as if expecting an attack at any moment. "G-g-good evening to you..."

Jaheira's look suddenly changed from one of disapproval to one of dismay. "Gorion is not with you? Then I must assume the worst; he would not permit his foster-child to travel without his accompaniment."

Going by her subdued reaction, Talvi guessed that Jaheira already knew somehow what had happened. "Yes, he...he was..." Trying to recall the attack proved too painful, and she was at loss for words. Their hurried flight from Candlekeep and their encounters on the roads had kept her mind off the death of her foster, but now the recollection of that terrible moment came rushing back.

"If he has passed," said Khalid, "then w-w-we share your loss..."

"Tell us everything that happened," Jaheira demanded in a rather bossy tone. "Leave nothing out!"

The four of them took a seat at one of the few empty tables and Talvi began recounting the events that had led up to Gorion's murder, beginning with the assassination attempt in Candlekeep. She hoped that one of them would know more about the plot against her, but it turned out that her foster-father had been as secretive with his friends as he had been with her.

"G-g-g-Gorion just told us that you would be coming this way," said Khalid, "and that w-w-we should wait for you here."

"So what are we gonna do now?" Imoen asked, looking annoyed that she had been left out of the conversation, and that Khalid and Jaheira seemed unaware that Gorion had _two_ foster children.

"Khalid and I...we look into local concerns, such as this iron plague spreading across the Sword Coast. Nearly every tool, weapon, and piece of armour being made nowadays is so brittle as to be useless, and we have tracked the problem to the mines at Nashkel."

"W-w-we think it would be best if you m-m-might come with us." Khalid's nervous stuttering was quickly become very irritating, and his anxious demeanour was hardly befitting a warrior. "It was Gorion's w-w-wish that we should become your guardians should anything h-h-happen to him."

"As a druid I would consider the Nashkel mines a blight upon the earth, but this iron shortage is a grave threat to the balance. And I cannot help but feel that this is linked somehow to Gorion's murder, though I do not know how."

Talvi raised an eyebrow. "You're a druid?" She had always pictured being dressed in leather robes or the like, not armour.

"Yes, I serve the greater balance, though I prefer to take a more active role than others of my order."

She was about to ask Jaheira if druids typically threw off their clothes and frolicked naked in the forest, though something told her that question would be rather inappropriate. "Then I welcome your company. One cannot have too many friends in these parts, given what we've seen on the road."

"Well, good! We will leave for Nashkel first thing in the morning; for now, let us have something to eat. We will need all our strength for the journey to come." She turned to her husband. "And _you,_ Khalid, will be having not one drop of ale or wine this night! One drink and you lose all sense, and I will _not_ be witness to another Saradush Incident!"

Whatever that was, it made Khalid recoil in embarrassment. "Y-y-yes, dear..."

Talvi wasn't particularly hungry, but she wanted a goodly amount of wine with which to drown her sorrows, so she stood up and approached the counter.

No one could fault the Friendly Arm Inn for its choice of drinks. There was Elminster's Choice Beer (generally considered by elves of refined palates to be undrinkable swill), Shadowdark (also considered undrinkable swill), dwarven ale (which Talvi considered about as palatable as a bucket full of vitriol), and Golden Sands Lager (charitably described by connoisseurs as a "beer-like substance"). Not wishing to abuse her refined tastes with any of these, she obtained a flask of Alurlyath wine and returned to her table.

"Forgot to tell you something, Talvi," Imoen said, rummaging through her pack. "After you left Candlekeep I went to see Winthrop, and he said he had a letter for you. Let me see, where was it...a-ha!"

She handed her an envelope sealed with the insignia of the Neverwinter Academy. Greatly curious as to its contents, Talvi hastily opened it and unfolded the letter within which, oddly enough, appeared to be charred slightly around the edges. Completely forgetting about the tragedy of Gorion's murder for a moment, she began reading with great anticipation.

_From: Neverwinter Academy_

_To: Disgusted of Candlekeep_

_I just got word of your insipid "review" of my father's novel,_ A Song of Blood and Thunder, _that was recently published in the Literary Review of Waterdeep, and I have to say that it was by far the most idiotic critique I have ever read. I'll have you know that this novel is a best-seller in countless cities across_ _Faerûn,_ _so you are obviously standing in opposition to popular opinion_ _and I could care less about what you think._

_You are clearly the sort of dullard who enjoys reading the same thing over and over (what else could I expect, given where you live?) I, for one, don't want to read yet another stupid story about some swamp-dwelling yokel who finds a magic sword and defeats some ancient evil. Unlike you, I live in the real world, and I know that this sort of thing just doesn't happen in reality._ A Song of Blood and Thunder _is all about gritty realism and moral ambiguity. It is a MATURE story for MATURE ADULTS, not ignorant children like you. There are no heroes or villains and no good or evil, just like real life. It's not my father's fault that some people are just so limited that they can't handle this type of narrative._

_Since you live in Candlekeep, and I can safely conclude that you are the sort of person who spends every waking hour with her face shoved in some dusty old tome, not knowing anything at all about the real world. Frankly, someone could burn your pathetic little library to the ground and the Realms would be no worse off._

_\- Qara, Sorcerer Adept_

Talvi nearly spilled her wine she was so incensed. "Hanali's heaving bosom! What a gibbering half-wit this Qara must be! And to threaten the sanctity of Candlekeep is truly beyond the pale! This demands a most forceful response!"

She began furiously searching through her belongs until she came across a blank piece of parchment and her quill. Khalid and Jaheira watched with puzzled expressions as she hurriedly wrote out her reply.

_From: Disgusted of Candlekeep_

_To: Qara, Knobhead, Neverwinter Academy_

_I have received via post your farcical defence of your father's work,_ A Song of Blood and Thunder, _which_ _reveal_ _s_ _quite clearly the abject depths of your stupidity. I have concluded, based upon your dubious literary tastes and the slovenliness of your_ _form_ _, that you are barely literate._ _I should not find myself surprised in the slightest were I to learn that you dictated this letter to someone else whilst a steady stream of drool issued forth from your malodorous mouth,_ _and that this unfortunate individual was forced to redact, revise, and rewrite your words until they met the laxest imaginable standards of coherency._

_"_ _Why? Why?" y_ _ou ask, in your incomprehensible babble,_ _incapable of understanding_ _w_ _hy_ _I have not joined the chorus of praise that you claim is being sung for this so-called novel. Know that civilisation demands a hierarchy of quality and that mass appeal is no measure of artistic worth, something which you are no doubt_ _powerless_ _to assimilate into your cretinous and blighted worldview. You_ _extol_ _the "gritty realism" of your father's work,_ _among many other things,_ _completely and utterly_ _failing_ _to understand that vulgarity is not m_ _aturity, darkness is not profundity, and that cynicism is not wisdom._

_Should you desire an example of the absurdity of_ A Song of Blood and Thunder, _at one point a principal character observes "When you play a game of crowns, either you win or die." Now isn't that a ridiculous thing for her to say? Given the gruesome fate that has befallen everyone who has occupied the throne_ _in this terrible tale_ _, it would_ _suffice to say_ _that winning a "game of crowns" is just as likely to lead to one's death as losing._

_You then have the temerity, you bull's pizzle, you goat-gobbling, winkle-sucking pillock, to cast some desultory aspersions upon the scholarly pursuits,_ _and you even go so far as to threaten the hallowed halls of Candlekeep itself._ _As difficult as it may be to believe, I sympathise with your position to a slight degree. The tiny letters found in your typical tome are no doubt difficult to read for one so intellectually stunted as you, and the act of comprehending the words that these letters form is likely so taxing to your pitiful mental faculties that you would soon collapse, gasping and wheezing, upon the cold stone floor of the Neverwinter Academy_ _after but a minute or two._

_I have no desire to be bothered in the future by any further correspondence of this nature. Should you harass me again, you will feel the biting sting of my magic._

_\- Yours in anger, Disgusted of Candlekeep_

Talvi folded up the letter, stuffed into it the envelope in which Qara's offending communication had arrived, then got up and marched over to the counter.

"Excuse me, my good gnome! Would I be correct in assuming that this inn of yours is routinely serviced by couriers or letter carriers?"

The gnome rubbed his beard. "Yes, but I'm afraid with all the bandit raids along the roads, it may-"

"I understand, but I have an urgent letter here that must get to Neverwinter in all haste! Lives may depend on it! Surely you would not want any needless deaths on your conscience, would you?"

He looked at her as if she were mad. "I will pass it along to the next courier who stops here, though I cannot say how long that will take."

"It had better be quick," she said acidly, "or else we may find that the Jewel of the North has descended into utter barbarism, its citizens slaughtering each other in a gore-soaked orgy of moral nihilism."

She went back to her companions, all of whom were now quite puzzled about what had just happened. "What was _that_ all about?" asked Imoen.

"Just another skirmish in my fight against cultural decline," she said. "It would seem that _A Song of Blood and Thunder_ originated in Neverwinter. This is a most troubling development. I may have to visit that city in the near future; I fear the battle for good taste may been won or lost within its walls."


	4. Those Who Harp

Chapter 4 – Those Who Harp

* * *

_Netheril and the Folly of Empire_

_by Talvi Korpela_

_"The peculiarities of a nation, both good and ill, must ultimately arise from the character of its people. Where else could they have come from?" - Haalaari Nhachashaal_

_The most commonly encountered explanation for the fall of the Netherese Empire is that the archmage Karsus, in his attempt to usurp the power of Mystryl, brought about a catastrophic disruption the Weave, resulting in all magic throughout the realms briefly ceasing to function and causing his peoples' flying cities to be sent plummeting to the ground. This notion has provided ample ammunition to the self-righteous critics of the arcane arts, who are all too willing to serve it up as an example of the dangers that magic users pose to the Realms._

_This explanation is simple, straightforward, and wrong. It is a product of the fallacious belief that history is shaped via the actions of certain "great men," and that the rest of the common folk have little choice but to bend to their whims. In reality, the opposite holds true – these so-called "great men" are but slaves of history, raised to prominence by forces set in motion centuries or millennia ago. History shapes our every action from cradle to grave; indeed, the fact that we are slaves to machinations far beyond our control or comprehension calls into question the very nature of free will. Karsus was, like anyone else, a product of his society – a society that was already in the process of steady decline during his lifetime, with Netherese dominance in political, economic, and cultural areas eroding at an accelerating pace. The decline in the political and economic realms has been well-studied; indeed, there is copious amounts of literature that points out how nonviable the Netherese policy of military expansion was, how nearly every coin of taxes went into the maintenance of the imperial armies and administration, or how the gold content of the Netherese coin decreased from 93 percent to 42 percent in just over a century. The empire was rapidly heading towards a situation comparable to present day nations such as Thay, with a tiny elite ruling over the impoverished masses from isolated enclaves and a public diverted from their miserable state by gladiatorial games and circuses._

_Yet there has been a conspicuous lack of study regarding the obvious cultural, moral, and intellectual decline that was also ongoing during the final years of the empire. A new mentality arose, one that was decidedly hostile toward intellectual pursuits, and the result was that the artistic endeavours were now aimed at the masses, with the focus being on bringing the cultural spaces down to the lowest common denominator. When one reads the works of literature produced during these period, it is in stark contrast to what was being written at the empire's peak, which was highly idealistic and possessing a strong moral centre. The works of the late empire period, however, were deeply cynical, vulgar, and morally nihilistic, glorifying the bloody-minded anti-hero, the callous manipulator, and the greedy, acquisitive_ _hustler_ _. More interestingly, these works were riddled with faulty grammar and syntax in addition to basic spelling errors – the Netherese people were quite literally forgetting how to write their own language. The decline in literature went hand-in-hand with the decline of scholarly pursuits, as "scholarship" in those years consisted of little more than collecting quotations and sundry facts. Works of the greatest thinkers of Netheril from centuries prior were almost impossible to find after -400 DR; not only had the Netherese forgotten their past glories, they forgot that they had forgotten._

_"Karsus' Folly," as historians have come to call it, did not emerge from a vacuum. He was living in a time of profound ignorance and intellectual decay, in an empire that was socially and culturally bankrupt..._

Talvi decided to leave off there for the night. Writing in her book was one of the few things that could take her mind off the death of Gorion, and while she would no longer be welcome in Candlekeep without his influence, that was no excuse to neglect the scholarly pursuits.

Like all elves, Talvi had no actual _need_ to sleep – she could instead enter into a trance-like reverie for a few hours and return completely refreshed – but she had grown up surrounded by humans and had adopted their ways.

Imoen was asleep on the bed to her right, while Khalid and Jaheira slept together on her left. Talvi did not know what to think of those two just yet. Khalid seemed too timid for one who was supposedly a fighting man, and Jaheira's manner suggested that the woman had already decided she was going to be Talvi's surrogate mother.

She looked down and grasped her amulet in her right hand. When she tried to remember her life before Candlekeep, an image would form in her mind of an elven woman dressed in white and wearing this amulet, and Talvi knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was her mother. But she did not know her name, or anything else about her for that matter.

Before she went to sleep, a sudden thought struck her. What if this Qara individual who had written to her actually intended to do harm to Candlekeep? The more she thought about it, the bigger the threat seemed. She had to do something, but what? Another letter was in order, and this one was going to the very highest authority in Neverwinter. She found a blank piece of parchment and went to work penning her missive.

* * *

_Is there any worse feeling than_ really _wanting to kill someone, but being able unable to because you still need them?_

One of these days, Sarevok figured, he was going to send Rieltar screaming to the Abyss; the only question was how. To think that fool still regarded himself as his "father" - if he only knew the truth, then he would understand just how absurd that belief was. The way he acted as if _he_ were in control of this grand scheme would be laughable were it not so aggravating. Rieltar would, for instance, insist repeatedly that his habit of going about his business in full armour was scaring the employees, and that the Iron Throne would never attract new talent if he persisted in his habit of throwing people who displeased him off the roof.

Rieltar's presence wasn't the only offensive thing in his sight, either. The décor of the Iron Throne's headquarters, with its polished marble floors and costly furnishings, was particularly assaultive on his eyes. As one of Bhaal's progeny, he would have preferred to have the place lined with a gratuitous amount of skulls and spikes, to the point where tripping and falling would carry a significant risk of impaling oneself. Given the general level of stupidity Sarevok had to deal with here, he reckoned this would be a frequent occurrence.

"It would seem we have a slight...problem...with our operation in Nashkel," Rieltar said, his beady eyes shifting from side to side.

Sarevok growled. He hated it when his underlings couldn't speak plainly. "What is it?"

"Mulahey appears unable to control his kobolds – they have already killed several miners."

He clenched his armoured fist and slammed it down on the table, punching a sizeable hole in it. This was the third table he'd ruined this tenday. "Our plan depends on the people of Baldur's Gate believing that Amn is behind the iron shortage! That will be disinclined to think that way if Amn's own people are being killed! Have Mulahey executed at once."

"There is a more pressing concern – Amn will likely send soldiers to investigate the mines, and we can be certain the Harpers won't be far behind, either."

"Then we'll have to ensure that no meddlers make it into the mines – have our agents wait in Nashkel and at every place where the mine breaks the surface! I want cut-throats, murderers, assassins, thugs, brigands, highwaymen, bounty hunters, slayers, killers, marksmen, hatchmen, hitmen, boot-lickers, arse-kickers, fact-fudgers, tax-dodgers, mischief-makers, whorekeeps, chimney sweeps, will o'deeps, and a priestess of Loviatar to keep them all in line!"

Sarevok stood up and walked out of the room, not even bothering to hear Rieltar's response. He headed upstairs to his bedchamber, which was the only part of the Iron Throne building that was appointed in a manner befitting his taste – spikes and skulls _everywhere._ His bed consisted of little more than a hard wooden slab, as he felt that sleeping in comfort did nothing except make him weak, and it was flanked by two stone carvings of the Slayer, one of Bhaal's avatars. Tapestries and paintings depicting scenes of bloodshed and destruction adorned the walls, carefully positioned so that Sarevok would be greeted with the sight of murder every time he awoke. An enormous mosaic in the shape of Bhaal's symbol covered the floor, because when you were the future Lord of Murder you might as well go all-in.

He strode out onto the balcony and gazed upon the city of Baldur's Gate beneath him. Already fear was beginning to spread amongst the people that Amn was planning an invasion and that the iron crisis was some insidious plot to weaken their armies. If everything went as planned, the streets of this city could be running red with blood within a matter of tendays and the sheer scale of the carnage would ignite the divine essence within his blood, allowing him to achieve apotheosis.

At least, that was what Sarevok _hoped_ would happen. If he were wrong, he'd be known as little more than a man who had orchestrated a totally pointless war between two nations. And then he would have some serious explaining to do.

But he was sure of his cause – he hadn't spent all that time in Candlekeep just to come away with an incorrect interpretation of Alaundo's prophecies. His only regret was that he had not found an opportunity to strangle Gorion's little whelp while he was there. He couldn't quite put his finger of what it was, exactly, but something about that the damn elf made his murderous desires scream for immediately and bloody fulfilment.

Like many others of his kind, Sarevok had been taken from his family at a young age by priests of Bhaal hoping to bring about the rebirth of their god. He remembered little from that time, save that there were many other children with him, though he could not say if Talvi had been amongst them. All he could recall was the Harpers attacking the priests' enclave, and in the confusion he had escaped into the wilderness, somehow winding up on the streets of Baldur's Gate. While Talvi had lived a life of comfort and ease in Candlekeep, Sarevok had been forced to survive by begging and stealing. But he was not resentful of this fact; quite the opposite. Growing up on the streets had made him strong and tough. He had to be smart, because he couldn't be stupid. There was no safety net, no wealthy family to bail him out of trouble, just the heavy hammer coming down on you in a world filled with hard and cruel people. And so he had learned to be hard and cruel himself, with nothing but contempt for weakness both in himself and others.

Eventually Rieltar had adopted him...and proven to be a harder teacher than the streets. Sarevok vividly remembered Rieltar forcing him to watch as he strangled his foster-mother as punishment for her "disloyalty," reminding Sarevok that he would suffer the same fate if he betrayed him. At the time he had taken his father's promise seriously, but now the notion that Rieltar could threaten him was laughable. He could cut that fool down with one stroke of his blade.

His thoughts turned back to Talvi. Maybe he shouldn't have left killing her to Tamoko and whatever cut-throats and murders she could dredge up; it would be far more satisfying to slaughter her himself.

_Elves! Is there any more loathsome people in the Realms?_ He despised the way they pranced about, full of arrogance and disdain, not realising that the glory of their race had long since passed. And the way they frolicked about in the woods...

...like _druids..._

The mental image of those tree-worshipping dancing through the woods filled Sarevok with such murderous fury that, had anyone been in the room with him at the moment, he would have been brutally slaughtered in a heartbeat.

If he recalled correctly, there was an enclave of druids within the Cloakwood Forest, not far from their hidden mine. Perhaps he could travel there and murder the whole lot of them? Yes, that would do nicely.

* * *

When Talvi awoke, she discovered that her companions were all still asleep, which struck her as rather strange considering that _she_ was usually the one still sleeping long after everyone else had awoken. To pass the time, she took a book from her pack that she had started reading back in Candlekeep, an adventure novel titled _The Gith Lords._ It concerned a fallen paladin travelling across up, down, and under Faerûn on a quest for redemption, aided by a malicious and manipulative night hag, a monk named Brianna Silverhair who preferred to spar in her undergarments, and a murderous, bloodthirsty golem. Unfortunately, the last few pages of the book were empty – the story quite literally ended mid-sentence – leaving the reader with a rather unsatisfying conclusion, to put it mildly. A number of dried bloodstains on the final pages suggested the author had met a sudden and violent end.

Yet she found herself unable to concentrate on the tome. Her grief at the loss of Gorion kept pushing its way into her mind, as did her fears and anxieties concerning her future. Figuring that the study of the arcane would serve to soothe her troubled mind, she retrieved the magical girdle Imoen had found in the ogre's stash and began examining it closely.

There was a great deal of magic surrounding it, though the girdle itself was very plain and bore no indication of its origins. Unable to learn anything about it from a cursory examination, Talvi began speaking the incantation for a spell of divination, quietly so as not to disturb the other guests sleeping nearby.

It was only a matter of seconds before the knowledge of the girdle's properties formed in her mind, as if she had always known everything about it. And when she learned just what it was, Talvi nearly fell out of her chair.

No one knew what it had been called originally, but it had come to be known as the Girdle of Masculinity/Femininity, for anyone unfortunate enough to secure around his or her waist would find his gender to be reversed. There had been much speculation as to the girdle's origins, with theories ranging from it being the creation of Beshaba to being a "gift" from a sorceress to an unwanted yet stubbornly-persistent suitor. However it had been brought into existence, it was an exceedingly-dangerous artefact and ought to be handed over to an organisation like the Harpers for safekeeping...

...on the other hand, Talvi reckoned that there was no harm in hanging onto it for a little while. There was no telling when she might need it...

* * *

"So tell me, who are you again?"

Imoen pouted as Jaheira conducted what Talvi could only describe as an interrogation. "I'm Imoen," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "Don't tell me Gorion never told you about me!"

"He did not," Jaheira answered flatly. "He never spoke of another foster-child besides Talvi."

This, predictably, did little to placate her. "That's just because she's a wizard! Well I'm gonna be a wizard one day too, just you wait! I'll be feared all the way from the Spine of the World to Calimshan, and with an army of demons at my command none will dare to oppose me! After that, I'll settle down and open a tavern called the Ten Hells."

Talvi frowned. "Why 'Ten Hells'? There are only nine Hells, Imoen!"

She shrugged. "'Cause I like to go one step further."

Jaheira rolled her eyes at their exchange. "Enough of this. We must reach the town of Beregost before nightfall; I do not want to be tromping about while nature sleeps, especially with all the bandit raids occuring along the Coast Way."

"What do you mean, 'while nature sleeps'?" Talvi asked. "Many animals are nocturnal. As a druid you should know this, and the fact that you don't calls your abilities into serious question."

Jaheira narrowed her eyes, not amused at all by her remark. "Let us waste no more time here. Khalid!"

The group was standing by the doorway to the Friendly Arm Inn, and Khalid, not knowing what to do while the women conversed, he tried to pass the time by petting one of the dogs roaming about the inn grounds. The canine evidently cared little for him, however, as it snapped at him when his hand drew near. Upon hearing his wife bark his name, he immediately stood upright like a soldier called to attention and followed her like an obedient hound.

_So this is marriage?_ Talvi thought. _One leads, and another follows?_ She supposed it was a good thing that the woman was clearly doing the leading in the case of Jaheira and Khalid, but the whole arrangement felt distinctly unappealing. This might have sounded odd coming from a follower of Hanali Celanil, but the portfolio of the Winsome Rose did not cover the state of wedlock specifically. No, Hanali was far too flighty and capricious for that. Talvi knew instinctively that her goddess' greatest desire was to see all elves in the Realms throw off their clothes and frolic naked in the woods, as all elves were surely meant to do.

The began their journey southward, with Jaheira leading the way, having apparently appointed herself the leader of their little group. Finding her domineering attitude off-putting, Talvi decided to speak with her husband instead.

"How did you know Gorion, exactly?" she asked, knowing full well that the mention of her foster-father would only serve to bring back the anguish of her loss.

She didn't hear whatever Khalid was about to say, as she caught something metallic glinting in the trees just to the side of the road.

"Wait, there's something-"

Talvi hadn't a chance to finish, as an arrow sprang forth from the woods, narrowly missing her by inches. A second later a trio of bandits ran out into the road, quite clear in their belief that they had found a band of travellers who would be easy prey for their depredations.

They thought wrong.

Having had a great deal of time to practice her spellcraft, Talvi knew that unleashing one's spell quickly was a vital skill on the Witch Path. As one of the bandits started nocking another arrow, a burst of magical energy shot forth from her hands, striking her attacker squarely in the chest and blasting a sizeable hole in his body. Along with finding this treatment extremely rude, he did not survive it.

Jaheira and Khalid rushed forward, though Khalid purposely lagged behind owing to his timidity. Taking a quick glance to her side, Talvi saw that Jaheira's body was covered in a thick, bark-like covering – no doubt some bit of druidic sorcery – that caused the bandits' arrows to bounce off harmlessly. One of the highwayman drew his sword and charged at her, but Jaheira deftly swung her shield around to parry his blow, then impaled him on her scimitar. As he fell dying to the ground, he wondered why it was he had even bothered to get out of bed that morning.

Khalid and their one remaining assailant were now one-on-one, and the fight taking place would have embarrassed even the rawest militia recruit. The bandit was fruitlessly attempting to stab Khalid, who was taking shelter behind his tower shield and making no effort whatsoever to counter-attack.

Jaheira put her hands to her hips. "Khalid!"

"Y-y-yes, dear?" he answered, blocking another blow from the bandit.

With a despairing sigh, Jaheira walked over the bandit, who completely and utterly failed to take notice of her approach, and then brained him with the hilt of her scimitar.

Now that his opponent was out cold, Khalid breathed a sigh of relief, only to tense up again when his wife began upbraiding him.

"Khalid! How many times do I have to tell you...when we fight, we must fight! I will not have you cowering behind your shield when battle is upon us!"

He looked away sheepishly. "S-s-sorry, dear. It's just that I c-c-can't stand the sight of b-b-blood..."

Imoen, who had not even got a chance to loose a single arrow in the fight, leaned over and whispered in Talvi's ear. "I don't want to sound mean or nothing, but for a fighter Khalid's a real wimp."

"I agree. Perhaps he would be better suited to more intellectual pursuits?"

Standing amidst two dead bodies (and one unconscious body whose owner would be quite dismayed when finally came to), Talvi was eager to be elsewhere, fighting down her growing disgust at how she had snuffed out yet another life. Just as she was about to move on, however, she caught Jaheira searching through one of the dead bodies.

"What are you doing?" Talvi cried, outraged at this lowly behaviour. "Stop groping that corpse at once!"

Still clad in her bark-skin, Jaheira ignored her protests. "These are no ordinary bandits. No doubt they were after our armour and weapons; since it is unlikely that they conceived of this plan themselves, they must be working for someone else. Perhaps there is something on them that will tell us more."

Talvi didn't believe a word she said, instead believing that Jaheira was just looking for an excuse to loot the dead. Yet to her great surprise, she soon produced a ragged scrap of parchment that one of the bandits had thoughtlessly shoved into the waist of his trousers.

"These are orders to the bandits," she explained, reading the parchment, "instructing them to ply the routes and attack anyone transporting iron or other metals. These orders come from the Zhentarim." She then crumpled up the parchment into a ball and tossed it aside. "Which is obviously a deception."

"I don't quite follow you," said Talvi.

"Why would bandits need written orders for something so simple? I doubt these brigands are even capable of reading. No, I suspect that these 'orders' were placed on these men to deceive us...to draw suspicion away from the true culprit."

Imoen gave Jaheira an odd look. "Wait, what do you mean 'us' You work for someone?"

"Th-Th-Those Who Harp, of course," answered Khalid.

Talvi stared at him, while Jaheira gave him a withering glare, indicating he was not supposed to have revealed that particular fact just yet. "You're _Harpers?_ Why didn't you say so earlier?"

Jaheira sighed. "Our...organisation...has many enemies, and we prefer not to reveal our affiliation unless absolutely necessary. I imagine Gorion never told you that he was one of us."

She remained completely dumbfounded. "No, he most certainly did not!"

"Yeah, he never told us nothin'!" Imoen added.

"Gorion r-r-retried from the Harpers," said Khalid, "when he s-s-settled to raise you..."

Talvi crossed her arms, unsatisfied with their explanation. "I heard there is no such thing as an 'ex-Harper'."

Jaheira moved quickly to shut this line of questioning down. "We will speak more of this later, but for now, we should focus on getting to Beregost."

The group continued on its way, with a cloud of suspicion hanging over them. Talvi wondered how long Jaheira and Khalid planned to wait before revealing their Harper membership, if they intended to at all. Yet it was Gorion's association with organisation that most perturbed her, for she was certain now that it was some Harper business that had caused his death. The Zhentarim were the most obvious ones to blame, but Jaheira had already discounted that possibility.

_Was it Gorion's hope that I too would become a Harper one day?_ she thought. The prospect of membership in their organisation was not entirely unappealing – the Harpers were founded by elves of Myth Drannor and regarded their civilisation with reverence, something which Talvi considered to be simple good sense. After all, surface elves lacked the bloody, atomised society of the drow, the dwarven predilection towards dourness and productivism, the gnomish obssession with technological gewgaws and gadgetry, the halflings' tendency towards sedentary lifestyles, and the humans' short-sighted ambition. It was only natural that more enlightened individuals, of any race, would seek to emulate elven civilisation.

It was well after sunset when the group reached Beregost, and in the absence of moonlight, they could see little of it from a distance save for a few dim lights in the city.

Imoen stopped and looked towards the town. "Did you know that 'Beregost' sounds an awful lot like 'rock cheese' in dwarvish?"

"Hmm, no, I did not. I'm afraid I did not spend much time learning the barbarous tongues of the rock-eaters. Now let us find some place to rest in this town; my feet are aching terribly."

Their journey south had left Talvi so exhausted that she paid little attention to her surroundings. Most sensible folk were indoors at this hour, doubly so with the bandit raids, and the whole town was eerily silent. It was not long before they heard the sounds of revelry and drunken debauchery associated with inns and public houses, however, and Talvi found herself subconsciously heading towards the source of the noise – a low-roofed building that, according to the sign hanging on the south side, was called the _Red Sheaf Inn._

"This seems as good as any," she said, not really knowing how to tell a reputable establishment from a disreputable one.

She led them inside the inn, which turned out to be a rather bare-bones sort of place, with rough-hewn stone walls and simple wood furnishings. A small warming room to the side held the ground floor's only hearth, and its light did not reach far enough past the inner doorway to do much to drive away the darkness. A number of plainly-dressed individuals of sat huddled around their tables, the lanterns and candles thereon providing a low level of illumination, while a rather portly-looking barkeep served up various drinks (all of which were surely undrinkable swill, Talvi thought) to the patrons.

It was a far cry from the welcoming atmosphere of the Candlekeep Inn, and she was about to suggest to the others that they find another place to stay when a surly-looking dwarf shuffled his way towards her.

"Well, look we we have here!" said the dwarf, brandishing his heavily-worn axe. He wore a shirt of chain and a battered helmet, indicating he was no stranger to battle. "Nothing personal, but I'd wager your time on this miserable ball of dirt is just about done."

Talvi reached for her dagger, her elven senses suddenly alert. "Who the devil are you?"

"Doesn't matter one bit who I am. All that matters is that a price is a price and a head is a head, and wherever the two meet is where I'll be."

The group readied themselves for a fight, each thinking that this dwarf had to be either very confident or very stupid to take on four people at once. But before the bounty hunter could swing his axe, another dwarf came up behind him and calmly tapped him on the shoulder.

"I'd be leavin' the elf lady alone, if I were ye'," he said. "Me axe's spilt the blood of duegar, drow, demons, devils, and dragons, and it'll spill yer blood too, if ye don't be backin' off!"

This dwarf had to be the most enormously and disgustingly fat individual Talvi had ever encountered. He did not so much walk as waddle, and his beard, grown long enough to reach to the ground, was filled with dirt and crumbs. Yet he must have been a fighting sort, as evidenced by the numerous scars on his face and the chipped and battered axe in his right hand.

"Go back to your cups, Ignaar. I'm amazed you've managed to walk this far without falling on your face, gasping for breath!"

"Now ye've done it, ye git!"

The fat dwarf moved with astonishing swiftness for someone so corpulent. In a flash, he swung his axe around and buried in his adversary's guts before he had a chance to even raise his own weapon in defence. He then tore his axe free, forcing Talvi to look away as what happened next was far too gruesome for her virgin eyes to behold. Judging from the horrid squelching and gurgling noise, however, she figured that their attacker had just lost a good portion of his innards.

"Blasted fool! Didn't like the look of 'im the moment he walked in here." He looked up and Talvi and gave her a wolfish grin. "Looks like another Korpela has been saved by me axe. Yer blood gets ye' in trouble, it does."

She froze, trying to avoid looking at the bloody mess on the floor in front of her. "H...how do you know who I am?"

"That amulet of yers belonged to yer mother; aye, and yer face be her spittin' image as well." He then let out a thundering belch that left a potent reek hanging in the air for several moments.

Truly Tymora had smiled upon her this day, Talvi reckoned, for now she had a chance to learn something about her family. "You knew my mother? But...who are you?"

"Name's Ignaar Drowslayer," he said, stroking his beard, causing no small amount of debris to fall to the floor. "Don't tell me she never told you about old Ignaar!"

"I...I never knew her; I was orphaned when I was very young."

"Then why don't ye' and yer friends take a seat at me table and I'll tell ye' about your mum."

Ignaar led them into the central room of the inn, tossing a handful of coins to the barkeep. "Sorry 'bout the mess," he muttered.

"Damn it, Ignaar!" the barkeep growled. "That's the third one this tenday! Do you know hard it is to clean blood off a wood floor?"

"Then I'd advise ye' to be more discriminatin' with yer' clientele!"

While the barkeep got to disposing of the bounty hunter's corpse (Talvi didn't really want to think too much about what that might involve), the group took their seats around a table that was heavily stained with spilt ale. Ignaar sat down, his chair straining under the weight, and began recounting his tale.

"It was the year 1281, I reckon. I'd made me way up to Icewind Dale in the hopes of findin' the old dwarven stronghold of Dorn's Deep. When I stopped in Easthaven was when I first saw her, arguin' with some bard in the Winter's Cradle tavern about the quality of his tales. Didn't pay much attention to her at the time, but soon I find meself roped into some expedition to the neighbourin' town of Kuldahar. Seems there was some trouble there and whatnot, and yer mum was one of those goin' with us. 'Course, not long after we left an avalanche came down on our heads, and she and three others were the only ones to make it out of that pass alive."

"Yes, but what was her _name?_ " Talvi insisted.

"She called herself Suvi," he explained, "and at first I thought she was just a very silly girl. But she had her spells and they served us well, and she had a way of keepin' us from killin' each other; no mean thing considerin' who she was workin' with."

_Suvi..._ at last she had a name to put to the face she saw in her distant memories. "And who were the others who travelled with her?"

Ignaar grabbed his flagon and took a hearty swig, sending rivulets of ale running down his beard. "Let's see...there was a drow lass-"

Talvi raised an eyebrow. "A drow?"

"Aye, and let me tell ye', I got me name 'Drowslayer' for a reason! It was all I could do to not gut her where she stood; paint the walls with her blood like I had with so many of her foul kin. But she was orphaned on the surface, she tells me, and knew nothin' her peoples' evil ways. Aye, she was the sweetest lass I ever knew."

"Sweet" wasn't a word Talvi thought could ever be applied to a drow, though she supposed anything was possible. "And the others?"

"There was a human woman, name of Ilona. Hard to forget, 'cause she dressed in black leather and carried a whip. Claimed she was a follower of Loviatar, and seemed to enjoy hurtin' people, especially that halfing. Stratford was his name...Stratford Dickshot McKillington."

Imoen couldn't help but giggle at the name.

"Aye, ye laugh now, lass, but if you made so much as a titter about his name he'd gut ye', just like that! Poor fool made the mistake of shootin' his mouth off to a dragon and got himself eaten, though knowin' his disposition he probably gave the beast the worst gas he ever had."

Talvi reclined in her chair. "I can't imagine my mother travelling with such people!"

"Aye, but she did...down and around and up and under Icewind Dale we went, defyin' death at every turn, goin' toe-to-toe with the worst Faerûn could throw at us. That be a tale long in the tellin'."

"But I want to hear it all," she protested. "I want to hear everything."

"Very well, lass, but before I tell ye' me story I need to hear yers, startin' with yer name."

Cautiously, she began explaining how she had wound up in her present situation, telling of her life in Candlekeep, the murder of her foster-father, and the repeated attempts on her life. "Aye, that be soundin' like the trouble your mum got us into. When we heard about what was happenin' in Kuldahar, we never expected that we'd end up fightin' demons from the Nine Hells."

Ignaar recounted the rest of his tale, which seemed almost too absurd to be believed – they had found themselves caught in the middle of a feud between a Baatezu and a marilith, and after slaughtering their way through trolls, orcs, lizard men, frost giants, fire giants, and undead abominations the group had thwarted the Baatezu's plot to unleash the hordes of hell on Icewind Dale. By the time Ignaar finished, he had become thoroughly soused, his story turning into utter nonsense about how they had battled a white dragon who had possessed the body of a barbarian chieftain.

"What happened to my mother?" said Talvi, hoping against hope that he would tell her she was still alive.

"I'm afraid I canna tell ye'. Last I heard she was headed up near Phlan to help rebuild the city; never heard a word about her after that. Never knew she had a daughter, either, tell ye' came in that door."

She hung her head, knowing it was foolish to have gotten her hopes up. "Well...thank you for telling me this. I've spent my whole life wondering what my mother was like, never even knowing her name."

"Aye, Suvi was a fine lass, if a wee bit prissy at times." He emptied his flagon and stood up, an act that surely required most of his strength, then let out yet another deafening burp. "Now I best be gettin' some rest; me and me fellows be headin' out to Durlag's Tower in the morn."

Jaheira scoffed at him. "That place has nearly claimed as many lives as Undermountain. Durlag was a madman; you'd be a fool to test yourself against his machinations."

Ignaar smirked at her. "I would not go if it weren't a challenge! They say there be loads of gold and gems in the bowels of the tower, just waitin' for someone to take it!"

"And deadly traps that offer no second chance," Jaheira retorted.

"Ye think I be new to this? Those who went to Durlag's Tower and died...they weren't dwarves, and only a dwarf knows the dwarven mind."

"It is, as they say, your funeral," Jaheira replied quietly.

"Best of luck to ye all," he said before looking squarely at Talvi. "I hope ye find the one who killed your father, and when you do, you split 'em in two!"

* * *

Lord Nasher shifted from side to side uncomfortably. He hadn't survived as an adventurer without having an intuitive sense of when things were about go terribly, horribly wrong, and this particular sense of his was sending all manner of warning signs. It usually manifested itself as an itch in his posterior regions.

In truth, all seemed well in Neverwinter. The only troubling occurrence had been when Desther Indelayne, author of the famous _Hexer_ novels, had suffered a public breakdown owing to an utterly devastating critique of his work he had received from an anonymous reader in Candlekeep. He had proclaimed _The Hexer_ to be the worst work of his life, and then apparently buggered off to gods-know-where. Nasher considered the books tripe, but he could not help but feel that this portended something ominous.

Yet his days of adventuring were long past, and instead of sleeping beneath the stars or in the halls of some dark and dangerous dungeon he now slept behind the impenetrable walls of Castle Never (it was a long-running joke amongst the citizens of Neverwinter that Castle Never was the third seat of government of in this city, after Castle Sometimes, Castle Now And Then, and Castle Not All That Terribly Frequently). It was a different life, to be sure, but sometimes he wondered it were truly a _better_ life.

Lady Aribeth de Tylmarande walked into the hall, her armour clanking as she did. Lord Nasher suppressed a sigh. He had never liked Lady Aribeth, but for the life of him he could not figure out why. She was certainly not a bad person, and she was far less self-righteous than most paladins, but something about her rubbed him the wrong way regardless.

_The armour,_ he thought. _It's her armour._ It left a good portion of her upper torso exposed for no reason than to accentuate her rather sizeable bosom. Did Aribeth not realise that the purpose of armour was to protect one's body, and that the more it exposed one's body the less it could serve that purpose?

"I have an urgent message for you, milord," she announced in a commanding voice.

"Do you now? Delivering mail hardly seems like the duty for a paladin of Tyr, Lady Aribeth."

She wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. "I must say, there has not been much...need...of my talents in Neverwinter as of late. And I have been informed that this letter I carry concerns the very safety of this city itself!"

"Very well, let me see it."

Aribeth handed him the letter, which was sealed in an envelope bearing the seal of one the numerous courier companies that operated out of Neverwinter. Knowing that time was of the essence, and that a letter going by horseback might take days or tendays to arrive, these companies typically utilised magical teleportation in the conveyance of urgent documents.

Nasher unfolded the letter and began reading it. The penmanship was exquisite, which lent an air of credibility to the whole thing.

_My Dread Lord Nasher Alagondar_

_I have recently been informed by a denizen of Candlekeep that a certain personage within the Neverwinter Academy by the name of Qara has recently made a threat to "_ _burn_ _(this)_ _pathetic little library to the ground._ _My contact in Candlekeep wishes to remain anonymous, but I can tell you that she is an elven intellectual titan whose concerns must not be dismissed._

_As I am sure you are aware, Candlekeep houses the finest and most comprehensive collection of writings on the face of_ _Faerûn,_ _and it is the policy of th_ _at_ _fine institution to treat every possible danger to its existence with complete seriousness. Even if you regard this as an idle threat, surely you must agree that this malefic individual's actions reflect poorly on such a hallowed establishment as the Neverwinter Academy._

_I urge to take action against this "Qara" with all haste. I would recommend that she be pilloried, or at the very least expelled from the academy and publicly revealed to be the total ass that she is._

_\- DRIZZT DO'URDEN_

A pair of scimitars was drawn near the bottom of the page.

Nasher sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

 


	5. Rangers and Rodents

Chapter 5 – Rangers and Rodents

* * *

_It is now the second day since my flight from Candlekeep, a terrible and terrifying upheaval that cast down the gods of Peace, Tranquillity, and_ _Contemplation_ _and left in their stead a terrifying and desolate wasteland. I am determined, however, not to become depressed, disheartened, or defeated. It has long been my desire to see the world beyond the walls of Candlekeep, and it seems that my wish has been fulfilled, though not in the manner I would have preferred and most certainl_ _y not in the proper time frame._

_I have made contact with two of my foster-father's friends – Jaheira and Khalid. Both are half-elves, and despite their lineage I can detect scant trace of the elven soul within them. I do not believe they are the sort who would ever frolic naked in the woods; in fact, I am quite sure that they would frown on such activities. Khalid is a warrior, or so I am told, yet h_ _e displays a level of timidness that it is hardly befitting those of the fighting profession. He seems eternally apprehensive, as though some catastrophe were about to befall him at any possible moment, and he is completely cowed by his wife. Jaheira is made of sterner stuff, although I reacted to her declaration that she is a druidic disciple with some degree of disbelief. From my limited understanding of the faith of the Oak Father and his followers, druids are forbidden from carrying shields or armour fashioned from metal, both of which_ _Jaheira counts amongst her possessions. Perhaps this is evidence of some schism within the druidic ranks?_

_Shortly after our departure from the Friendly Arm Inn, it was revealed to me (quite inadvertently) that both Jaheira and Khalid are Harpers. Furthermore, it would appear that Gorion was once counted amongst their ranks. This understandably came as a great surprise, and I have begun to wonder how much else of his past he has kept hidden from me._

_Imoen's larcenous tendencies continue to grow unabated; just before our group retired to the rooms of the Red Sheaf Inn I caught her lifting some bauble from one of the merchants. I find it difficult to condemn her behaviour, however, as the typical target of her theft is_ _quite often_ _some obscenely-wealthy human noble or the like. The human notion of aristocracy – that one deserves wealth and privilege simply because one's ancestors were sufficiently bloodthirsty to accrue it by force – baffles me. Such individuals were frequent visitors to Candlekeep, where they, without fail, would look through the collections in the manner of a dilettante,_ _making it quite obvious that they had come to the library fortress merely to proclaim that they did. Yet the human nobles were not the most insufferable visitors to our hallowed halls. No, that dubious honour belongs to the merchants, the great majority of which_ _hailed_ _from Amn. Despite Candlekeep's well-known reputation as a storehouse of knowledge, these hustlers and charlatans seemed to be under the mistaken impression that we were in the business of_ selling _books! Try as we might, it was impossible to convey to them the message that their coin meant nothing to us. Truly, everything I have read about Amn suggests that is a foetid cesspool of avarice and greed where wealth is thoroughly confused with worth,_ _and where anything goes if it makes a coin or two_ _. It should be a great misfortune should I ever find myself travelling to that_ _ac_ _cursed land._

_Most importantly, I have also learned a great deal about my mother from a rather corpulent dwarf here in Beregost. Her name as Suvi Korpela, and she led a group of adventurers across Icewind Dale_ _in a tale worthy of the greatest bards and storytellers in the Realms. Sadly, the dwarf was unable to tell me of my mother's ultimate fate, nor did he say anything of my father. Though it is likely a naive expectation, I shall still maintain hope that she lives still and that I shall one day be reunited with her.  
_

_\- Your Adventuring Elf_

_Literary Review of the Day:_

_-_ A Waltz With Thieves _(Completely awful, revolting, trashy rubbish – the author's crimes against the written word merit the death penalty. Most definitely NOT recommended.)_

_-_ Age of the Wyrm II ( _Protagonist is an utterly unlikeable knobhead who is unbearably flippant and sarcastic. Do not recommend.)_

_-_ The Ruins of Myth Drannor _(Tome has some malicious enchantment on it that caused it to burst into flames and singe my desktop. Do not recommend.)_

_-_ The Untold Adventures of Drizzt Do'Urden _(I do not think someone of Drizzt's moral rectitude would engage in such rampant fornication. What sort of person composes completely fictitious stories about living, non-fictional individuals? Do not recommend.)_

_-_ Torment _(A most excellent story, with a quality of prose that is sadly lacking in contemporary adventure novels. The "chaste succubus" was rather implausible, however. Recommended.)_

_-_ Volo's Complete Guide to the Behaviour of Nymphs _(Puerile, contemptible rubbish. Volo has sunk to a new low with this one. Do not recommend.)_

Talvi stashed her journal into her pack and set to work cleansing her robes of the dirt they had accumulated over the past few days. They needed to be washed, of course, but there was no source of clean water around. Luckily, she happened to know a few cantrips that would clean any item without requiring her to lift so much as a finger. These spells had proven most useful back in Candlekeep, where she had often been tasked with some menial chore or another, and were almost completely reliable, with objects bursting into flame only on rare occasions.

She removed her robes and laid them out in the bed, and she was about to cast her cantrip when there was a knocking at the door. "Come in," she said.

The door opened and Khalid strolled in, who immediately leapt back with a shriek of fright when he saw Talvi undressed. "Oh, I'm t-t-terribly s-s-sorry, I...I d-d-didn't realise you hadn't g-g-gotten dressed..." He stood with his head turned, as if looking upon her would cause him to be struck blind.

Talvi stared at him. "What's wrong with you? Haven't you ever seen a naked elf before?"

"Y-y-yes, but...I...I..."

She rolled her eyes. "Look, just tell me whatever it was you came to say, will you?"

"Jaheira just says that w-w-we are all ready to g-g-go, and we should m-m-make haste for Nashkel." Scurrying off like a dog with its tail between its legs, Khalid slammed the door behind him, and Talvi suspected his embarrassment would last for the greater part of the day. It seemed that his human half had bestowed upon him the humans' bizarre neuroses regarding nudity.

She headed downstairs once she had finished cleaning robes. Her companions all looked rather impatient with the exception of Khalid, who was unable to look her in the eye. "There you are," Jaheira said, giving Talvi a disapproving frown. "I would not think an elf would be the type to spend so much time sleeping."

Talvi shrugged. "Waking early is for dwarves."

Jaheira bit her lip, unsure of what to make of that remark. "Never mind. Now come along – the situation in Nashkel grows worse with every minute we waste here."

It turned out that Talvi had slept in for far longer than she anticipated, for it was nearly noon when they strode into the streets of Beregost. This was a notable occasion for her, as it was the first time she had laid eyes upon a city proper. Having only read about them in books, she was unsure of what to expect.

Sadly, Beregost was a terrible disappointment. The buildings looked haphazardly arranged, with no thought given at all to aesthetics or balance, and many of them were so run-down that they looked like they would collapse should a stiff wind blow up. This was without a doubt a city built by humans, Talvi reckoned, as no effort had been made to establish any sort of harmony with the natural environment; rather, the builders had seen fit to bludgeon nature into submission until only the faintest trace of it remained. The only structure that looked even remotely pleasing to the eye was a temple to the east, which had been constructed in a style more reminiscent of Calishite architecture than the northern regions.

"Why is it that humans cannot live in the natural environment without destroying it?" she wondered aloud. "No elf would ever build a city like this!"

"Is it simply their way," Jaheira said calmly, though her tone suggested she agreed with Talvi's assertion. "I do not have much patience for cities myself, nor does Khalid."

"Y-y-yes...so...so many people," he said, his expression pained, as if he were recalling a bad memory. "I am much more at ease in the forest."

Now was her chance to ask the question that had been nagging at her since meeting these two. "Do you ever have the urge to throw off your clothes and frolic naked in the woods? I've always wanted to do so, yet I never had the opportunity."

Khalid looked at her, horrified. "N-n-naked?" The way he spoke made it clear that he regarded any degree of nudity as completely unacceptable.

"Of course. Clothes are so bothersome sometimes, and it feels rather nice to be rid of them. I don't understand why humans are so prudish. Do you know that they have the temerity to portray Sune, the goddess of beauty, _fully clothed?_ Hanali Celanil permits artists to depict her only in the nude, for anything that conceals her divine splendour is a horrid affront."

Jaheira came to a stop near the edge of the town, thinking to herself for a moment. "I am not sure it would be wise to travel to Nashkel by road. With all the bandit raids happening along that route, perhaps it would be better to make our way through the forest."

Imoen was less enthusiastic. "But what...what about the wolves and bears and wolves who ride bears, like some kind of...bear cavalry...?"

"We have little to fear from the creatures of the wild, so long as we tread lightly." She then marched off in the direction of the forest, not even bothering to hear any dissenting opinions.

* * *

It was late in the evening when Tamoko learned of the dwarven bounty hunter's fate, and the news was most troubling. She had hired three bounty hunters to find Gorion's ward, each one a seasoned veteran of his or her profession, and already two of them were dead. There was no trace of Tarnesh – according to the people she had questioned at the Friendly Arm Inn he had been dragged off by some fiendish denizen of the Nine Hells. Karlat's disembowelled corpse had been thoughtlessly stuffed into a barrel behind the Red Sheaf Inn in Beregost, his demise striking in its brutality. That left Neira, who waited in Nashkel, and somehow Tamoko suspected that Talvi would deliver her to the same fate as the others.

She had not expected someone of a scholarly background to be so dangerous.

More worrying was the prospect of having to report all this back to Sarevok. He would not be pleased that Gorion's ward had not been dealt with, but nothing seemed to please Sarevok these days. Aside from wanton acts of murder and bloodshed, the only thing the man seemed to take joy in any more was being outraged at the failings of his underlings.

He hadn't always been this way. Yes, Sarevok had been a ruthless, ambitious man – she would never have been attracted to him otherwise – but he had always showed a measure of restraint in his quest for power. Now that restraint was a distant memory; she half-expected to return to the Iron Throne headquarters only to find that he had slaughtered everyone in a fit of pique. It was all Winski's fault, she thought. Ever since the man had started pouring his poisonous words into Sarevok's ear he had been acting with greater and greater savagery. She had tried to steer him away from such tendencies, but he treated her council as if it were little more than an irritating buzzing sound. Did he not realise that the quest for power was a siren's song? The history of the Realms was filled with deranged individuals who tried to become gods, and without fail their attempts would end in tragedy.

Tamoko knew what Sarevok's answer to that would be, however. "I will learn from their mistakes! I shall succeed where they failed!" Of course, others who had sought to achieve apotheosis had likely thought the same.

She threaded her way through the throngs of people filling the streets of Baldur's Gate, making her way towards the docks. The Iron Throne headquarters dominated this area of the city, and people instinctively avoided the building, sensing that nothing good was brewing within those stone walls. That made the Iron Throne fit right in with the general atmosphere of danger and vice that hung over this part of the city like a black cloud. One could not reach the headquarters without passing by the Low Lantern – which was either a brothel or a perfectly respectable tavern depending on whom you were speaking with – and the temple of Umberlee, who was a fickle goddess at the best of times.

As she approached the front gate a shadow passed over her, and Tamoko instinctively sprang back just in time to avoid a large, heavy object that would have fallen on her head had she not reacted in time. This large and heavy object was, in a fact, a person, and his sudden impact with the unyielding ground had rapidly redimensioned his mortal form to the point where his continued existence was no longer an option.

There were several shrieks of terror from the passersby, but Tamoko ignored them and proceeded inside the Iron Throne headquarters. This was, after all, hardly an unusual occurrence around these parts. Sarevok must be having another bad day, she thought.

* * *

Their journey through the woodlands south of Beregost took longer than they anticipated, and it soon became clear that they were not going to reach Nashkel before nightfall. They set up camp near a small lake that looked quite peaceful and serene...very much the sort of place where elves might frolic, Talvi reckoned.

While the others made a fire and laid out their bedrolls, Talvi quietly removed her clothes and waded into the cool, clear water. She had not had a chance to bathe since leaving Candlekeep, and she would be damned if she were going to go gallivanting across the Sword Coast all dirty and filthy. For a moment she pondered asking her companions to join her in bathing, but they all seemed to share the human aversion to nudity, despite the fact that Jaheira and Khalid were half-elves.

She cupped her hands and dipped them beneath the surface of the lake, then poured the water over her head. The coldness made her shiver for a second, but she quickly grew accustomed to it, continuing to scrub the dirt from her skin while her companions sat around the fire, all trying their hardest to avoid looking at her. _Am I imagining things,_ she thought, _or do they look_ embarrassed _?_ Had she committed some sort of faux pas by bathing in their presence? But would it not be _more_ shameful to ignore one's personal cleanliness when one was travelling in close company?

"The water is wonderful," she said. "I suggest you all come join me. You don't know when you'll have another bathing opportunity."

Khalid started turning his head in direction, then quickly snapped it back when he remembered that she was not wearing any clothes. "I...I don't want my armour t-t-to rust..."

"You don't bathe in your armour, you silly person! Or in any clothes, for that matter!"

" _Khalid_ does," his wife added with a hint of a smile on her face.

" _J-J-Jaheira!_ "

Annoyed, Talvi moved further along the lake shore, out of sight of the others. She could only imagine how awkward and difficult Khalid and Jaheira's wedding night must have been, and she wondered what could have brought the two of them together. But Lady Goldheart was nothing if not unpredictable, and it was said that nothing delighted her more than causing love to blossom between two utterly opposed personalities.

She continued bathing herself when she suddenly heard a rustling from the woods behind her. Turning around, she let out a brief gasp of fright when she saw a dark figure emerge from out between the trees, and her fear only grew when she realised that this was no beast of the forest or common bandit. No, this person was a _dark elf._

Yet her terror vanished as quickly as it had appeared, for when she spied the drow's twin scimitars, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this could be none other than the legendary _Drizzt Do'Urden._

For a few wordless seconds Drizzt simply stood there, staring at Talvi in the moonlight, water glistening on her naked body.

Then, he spun around so fast it was as if he were a blur. "Oh, I...I'm terribly sorry, my good lady; I had no idea anyone was here." He spoke in a tone of voice that sounded unusually refined for someone had who spent a good portion of his life in the frozen wastes of Icewind Dale.

She had no idea what to say. What _could_ one say to one of the most famous individuals in Faerûn? Looking him over, Talvi noticed that Drizzt was quite a bit shorter than she was expected, though he was still strikingly handsome. Men wanted to be him, women wanted to bed him (though a fair number of men wanted to bed him as well), and anyone unfortunate to find himself on the wrong end of his scimitars was as good as dead.

At last, Talvi worked up the courage to speak. For a brief moment she considered speaking the traditional drow greeting _v_ _ith'ir,_ or the exceptionally polite _vith usstan,_ but she decided against it. "No need to apologise, Drizzt, there's plenty of lake for the two of us." She threw her head to the side, flinging the water out of her long, golden hair, dearly hoping that Drizzt would join her in the lake.

By now the drow ranger was looking distinctly uncomfortable, and he had the look of man searching for any chance to escape his situation. "I'm...uh...not sure what you mean, my good lady."

"For bathing, of course, and perhaps throwing off your clothes and frolicking in the woods later on. We _are_ both elves, after all, and freeing ourselves of our attire and embracing the natural world is what we all must do now and then, lest we find ourselves racked with anxiety and distress."

There were several awkward seconds of silence between them. "You are a very silly girl," he said at last, "and I'm not going to listen to you." He departed as quickly as he had arrived.

Considerably nonplussed, Talvi stared at the spot in the trees where Drizzt had vanished, wondering what it was she had said. Surely the great Drizzt Do'Urden was not some terrible prude? If that were the case, she thought, it would definitely lower her opinion of him.

She returned to her companions, eager to tell them of what had just occurred, not bothering to get dressed. "You won't believe whom I just saw!" she said excitedly. "It was none other than Drizzt Do'Urden!"

Khalid glanced at her and, seeing that she was still naked, quickly looked away. "Could you p-p-please put your c-c-clothes on..."

"I wonder what he was doing around these parts? He's far afield of Icewind Dale, though I suppose a great adventurer like Drizzt would have ample cause to travel. I thought he might like to bathe with me, but it seems the unclothed female body is repulsive to him. From this I can only conclude that he has either been spending too much time amongst humans and has adopted their ridiculous prudishness, or that he prefers the company of men."

Jaheira leaned towards Imoen and whispered into her. "Is she always like this?"

"I'm afraid so."

* * *

The group returned to the Coast Way road early in the morning, and they soon came upon the Amnish village of Nashkel. It was far less impressive than Talvi had hoped – it was less a settlement and more a ramshackle collection of huts and dreary-looking domiciles. One building – a temple of Helm – dominated the skyline, and looked to be the only structure to have been constructed with an eye to aesthetics. But of all the places Talvi wished to visit, a Helmite temple was quite far down on that list; of all the gods of Faerûn, the only one more insufferably boring had to be Ilmater.

There was an inn near a bridge over a narrow stream, but as it was early in the day, they gave it no attention. Talvi was quite lost in her thoughts, still troubled by the dream she had experienced the night before. In it she had found herself standing outside the walls of Candlekeep, gazing up at her old room and trying to find a way inside the library fortress. But to her dismay, the once-familiar gates had disappeared, leaving her with no means of entry. Then an enormous pink dragon had descended from the sky, then advanced upon her behind a chorus line of morbidly-obese dancing dwarves who were belting out a truly grotesque rendition of some Luskan sailors' shanty. Speaking the words of an arcane incantation, Talvi sent forth a burst of magical energy at the dragon, which promptly exploded in a shower of flower petals and ponies, causing the dwarves to shriek in terror and run madly off in all directions, at which point they were promptly gobbled up by rampaging tarrasque. The tarrasque stopped to speak with Talvi, telling her "Two polar bears fly over the desert. One loses a wheel. The other says 'How many eggs are in the nest?', to which the other replies, 'Nothing! Cucumbers haven't any bones!'"

She wasn't sure what any of it meant.

"We must speak with the mayor, Berrun Ghastkill," Jaheira explained. "He will be expecting us. I suggest you let _me_ do the talking."

They did not get the opportunity, as they were most rudely interrupted.

He came out of nowhere, standing a head higher than even the tallest amongst them. Dressed in suit of battered plated mail and carrying a monstrous two-handed sword, he was clearly out of place in this pastoral village. There was a wild look in his eyes, a look of barely-restrained fury, yet oddly lacking in any sort of maliciousness.

As if that weren't enough, he appeared to be engaged in conversation with a small, furry rodent of some sort; one of those absurd little creatures that humans often kept as pets.

"Yes, Boo, I agree...they look to be trustworthy. Greetings, fair travellers!"

He spoke with a heavy accent that Talvi could not identify, though she could sense that he was clearly from somewhere far away. There was a purple tattoo of some sort covering the right half of his head; while the symbolism of it was lost on her, she thought the artwork crude at best, like the work of finger-painting children.

Given that the man looked like he could decapitate an ox with his bare hands, she was not about to offer her opinion on the matter.

"Um...who are you?" Talvi asked cautiously. "And why are you talking to a gerbil?"

" _Hamster,_ " he corrected with a harsh glare. "I am Minsc, ranger of Rashemen, and Boo is my faithful animal companion. Behold, travellers, the only miniature giant space hamster in the realm!"

Since leaving Candlekeep there had been people trying to murder her at every turn, and now she was being accosted by a complete lunatic. "And what is it you want?"

"Alas, my charge, the fair witch Dynaheir, has been taken from me by gnolls. I have tracked them to a fortress to the east, and soon I shall beat them senseless until they release her! But I need noble heroes to join me in this quest, and none in this village will aid me!"

Though she had long desired to escape the confines of Candlekeep and seek adventure across Faerûn, Talvi had not anticipated being thrust into this kind of situation. She wasn't about to do anything this madman asked, but she was afraid of how he might act should she refuse.

She looked back at her companions. They said nothing, but the words on their faces were clear: _just do as he asks, before he kills us all!_

Mercifully, a grey-haired elf approached them, clad in studded leather armour and carrying a longbow on his back. "Jaheira? I've been expecting you. And...I see you've met Minsc." Judging from his expression, he did not hold a high opinion of the ranger.

"And you must be Berrun Ghastkill. We've come to-"

"Yes, yes, you're here to look at the mines," he said impatiently. "I'll pay you 900 gold pieces if you can get to the bottom of whatever is happening there, and another 300 if you make sure this... _oaf..._ stays out of this town. He and his hamster showed up three days ago and started causing trouble, badgering the townsfolk to join him on some mad quest. I'd be mighty glad if you could get rid of him. "

Minsc glared at him. "I do not like your tone, elf, and Boo cannot abide being likened to a badger! See, his whiskers quiver with terrible rage! It is small, but he is fuming, trust me!"

Berrun ignored him. "As I said, 300 extra gold for making sure he never comes back here. He drank every last drop of ale from our tavern and didn't even have the common courtesy to pay for it."

"Great heroes do not need to pay for ale, not when they are busy hero-ing!"

"Well you can go 'hero' somewhere else!"

Minsc spun around to face the group. "Pay no attention to this coward! We must make haste to the west! There the foul gnolls have taken fair Dynaheir!"

He started off, moving surprisingly quickly for someone so huge. Talvi found herself following him, despite not having agreed to anything yet and being quite sure that accepting this madman's quest was going to end badly. But if this Dynaheir were truly in peril, then rescuing her was the right thing to. According to one particular bestiary she had studied in Candlekeep, gnolls usually devoured their captives. Gorion would not have her sit idle, she knew, but then again, he would not have her blindly following a man who talked to a hamster, either.

Imoen was far more enthusiastic. "Wow, a damsel in distress! A real adventure, just like in the stories ol' Puffguts would use to tell me!"

(None of them were aware that, by choosing not to stay in the Nashkel Inn, they had unknowingly avoided yet another bounty hunter seeking the price on Talvi's head. Said bounty hunter would remain there for the next several days, growing increasingly frustrated that her quarry had not shown herself, until she finally decided to go out and look for her. After several hours of searching, she finally picked up Talvi's trail and had quite nearly caught up with her when she was suddenly and unceremoniously devoured by an ankheg. It might have been some consolation, had she still been alive, to know that she did not digest well, giving the unfortunate ankheg a bad case of intestinal distress that made it very unpopular with other ankhegs for some time.)

* * *

Ulraunt paced about his study in a fit of anxiety. Gorion's body had just been recovered after a lengthy search, and it was to be interred in the Candlekeep crypts as befitting a man of his station and reputation. Yet there had been no sign of Gorion's two wards, Talvi and Imoen. Which meant the possibility that they were still alive, and _that_ meant the possibly that the two girls _might return to this place._

The Keeper of the Tomes wasn't sure his nerves could take that.

The two of them had simply been impossible to deal with. Hardly a day went by where Talvi had not been writing some lengthy screed decrying the lack of literary merit in some work or another, then sending it off to the author of said work, resulting in countless writers throughout Faerûn getting the impression that Candlekeep had no purpose but to disparage their work. When she wasn't doing that, Talvi would be pestering him for tomes whose titles were so obscure that he was certain she was making them up. Or burning down yet another building thanks to her bumbling attempts at spellcraft. Or posing nude for that scandalous painting that still had not been taken down.

As for Imoen, her constant pilfering and thievery, done skilfully enough that he could never quite prove that it was her, was enough to drive someone to madness. Ulraunt was certain that she had even stooped to looting the tombs beneath Candlekeep, despite the numerous traps and safeguards put in place.

Those two women had surely added years to his age.

He reassured himself that Talvi could never return, that she would never acquire a tome of sufficient value to be granted entrance.

But what if she _did?_

It was the sort of thing that kept him awake at night.

Sitting atop his desk was a letter directed to one "Disgusted of Candlekeep," an appellation Talvi had used in her scathing missives. No doubt it was an angry response from yet another author she had offended with her criticism, and it would fall to him to write back explaining that the opinion of this particular individual was not representative of Candlekeep as a whole. It was the kind of letter Ulraunt had become quite proficient in penning.

Taking a deep breath, he unravelled the letter and began reading. The penmanship was abominable and barely legible.

_Dear Disgusted of Candlekeep_

_Oh, so that's how it going to be, then? I'll have you know that while the idiots in the academy were struggling to cast the simplest cantrips I was busy hurling fireballs and binding arch-devils to my service. I've been involved in countless adventures to the Lower Planes, fought toe-to-toe with the hordes of the Nine Hells, looted the tomb of Acererak, and even battled the Lady of Pain to a standstill._ _You are nothing to me but another foe to be burnt to ashes by my magical might. I will destroy you with an arcane fury the likes of which have never been seen in the Realms, mark my words. You think you can get away with saying things like that to me in a letter? Think again, fool. At this very moment I am summoning all my magical energy to find out where you're hiding, so you better prepare yourself for the firestorm, you tome-licking, paper-pushing pedant! The storm that wipes out that pitiful little thing you call your life. I can be anywhere, at any time, and can destroy you in over 700 ways, and that's just with the first page of my spellbook. My magical might is greater than that of Elminster and Khelben Blackstaff combined, and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your sorry arse from the face of_ _Faerûn._ _If only you could have known what kind of infernal retaliation your little letter would have brought down upon your head, then maybe you would have held your tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're going to pay the price. You're dead, fool!_

_Qara_

Ulraunt folded up the letter, then, after a few moments of consideration, tossed it into the fireplace. It was times like these when he wondered if he had not chosen the wrong profession.


	6. The Fury of the East

Chapter 6 – The Fury of the East

* * *

_Today, dear reader, we arrived in the dreary mining town of Nashkel, though I must first recount the events of the night prior. We had stopped near a small lake, having failed to reach Nashkel before sunset, and I felt it as good a time as any to remove my clothes and bathe in those calm, pristine waters and remove the accumulated filth of my travels. My companions declined to join me in this affair, consumed as they were with the human aversion to nudity, something which I continue to find most baffling._

_No sooner had I begun bathing than I heard a rustling from the undergrowth, which soon resolved itself into the unmistakable figure of the legendary drow ranger DRIZZT DO'URDEN. After a brief conversation I suggested that he disrobe and join me in the cool, clear waters of the lake, yet to my utter amazement he appeared to regard my invitation as some sort of social affront. Indeed, it seemed as though he had either adopted the human aversion to any state of undress, or he found my nude form unappealing. To my great dismay he departed immediately thereafter; though I entreated Hanali Celanil to bless the mighty Drizzt with the bliss of unexpected affection, it would seem that the two of us were simply not meant to be. Nevertheless, I_ _maintain that Lady Goldheart shall soon smile upon me, though I know not what form her divine favour shall take._

_Speaking of rangers, immediately after our arrival in Nashkel our group found itself accosted by a thoroughly deranged member of that profession who calls himself Minsc. From his mad ramblings I have gleamed that he hails from the faraway land of Rashemen, and that he has come here as part of some of rite of passage along with a "witch" named Dynaheir. Despite his apparent prowess as a warrior, I cannot help but question his mental state given that he has adopted a small rodent as his companion, which he claims is a "miniature giant space hamster." Obviously he has taken a few too many blows to the head, though perhaps a skilled cleric might return to him some of his sanity with a spell of restoration._

Hearing something moving about behind her, Talvi set down her quill.

"I can hear you, Imoen. You're as loud as an orc."

This was followed by the sound of her stomping her foot in frustration. "By Mask, I wasn't even making a sound! No way you heard me!"

"Elves have much keener senses than humans," she explained. "And do not invoke the name of such a malevolent god, even casually! You never know when the divine powers might be listening."

"Well, I can't go worshipping some elven love goddess like you when I'm practising the sneaksman's trade now, can I?" Imoen pouted.

Talvi closed her journal and stuffed it into her pack. "Love is but _one_ of Hanali Celanil's aspects. Her portfolio also includes beauty, artistry, and magical enchantments...but surely you must remember all this from our theological lessons back at Candlekeep!"

Imoen shrugged. "I slept through those. You know, if you rest your head on a book the right way, it looks an awful lot like you're actually studying!"

"By the stars, child! Do you want to end up on the Wall of the Faithless? And how could you have neglected your studies in so cavalier a manner? We will have to rectify this at once. I recommend you start with _Faiths of Faerûn, 3rd Edition_ by Aldus P. Sackwalloper, followed by a thorough reading of _Liminal Meditations – An Account of the Outer Planes,_ by Stercus Comedo. And should you wish to know more of the elven pantheon, I suggest reading _Of Wine and Worship_ by the famed wood elf lorekeeper Korpi Klaani."

Having remained silent through all this, Jaheira finally spoke up. "Tell me, Talvi, how much do know of nature? I imagine you could not know much of the balance, confined as you were behind Candlekeep's walls."

Talvi wasn't sure how to answer her. "Nature? You mean the Leaflord, Rillifane Rallathil?"

"Nature is more than mere deities, child. It is entire realm unto itself, one that is far older than any civilisation on Toril. And the balance is the harmony that exists when all forces – civilisation versus savagery, order versus chaos – do not gain ascendancy over each other."

"I would assume, then, that most druids are of the elven race."

Jaheira frowned. "Many are, yes, but the path of the balance calls to all races."

"Even dwarves and humans?"

"Where are you going with this, child?" she asked, irritated.

Her constant referral to her as a "child" annoyed Talvi. Being a full-blooded elf, she could have been hundreds of years her senior for all she knew. "How can dwarves know _anything_ of nature? They carve and gouge the earth, plundering its wealth as they dig their warrens. And humans, well, you have seen how they treat the land back in Beregost. That miserable little burg was utterly lacking in proper geometry and theology, crushing nature underfoot and using her bones to construct the town's dreadfully dreary domiciles. This failure to maintain contact with nature is, sadly, a recurring motif in human culture."

Jaheira said nothing for a moment, pondering her words. "I might, in some ways, agree with you, but we should not judge others so harshly. There are some druids who are less...accommodating...of the excesses of civilisation than I, but I will speak no more of this. Do not think that elves are the only ones who seek up hold nature and the balance."

"And we humans are plenty good at lots of things!" Imoen added. "Like magic! I'm gonna be a great wizard one day, just you wait!"

Talvi stared at her. "That's the second time you've made this particular declaration. You've never expressed any interest in spellcraft before we left Candlekeep, Imoen. Every time I brought up the subject you dozed off!"

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by Minsc's shockingly loud snoring. "Well that's 'cause you kept rambling on and on forever about boring stuff! Besides, I read a few books on magic, even cast a few cantrips of my own."

"I sincerely hope it is more than just a 'few' books you have read, Imoen. Magic is extremely powerful, and it requires years upon years of study to control such immense arcane forces. Unless, of course, one is a _sorcerer_ , but they have contributed little to the body of magical research, partly due to their contempt for academic rigour, but mostly because their kind have a tendency to blow themselves up on account of their incompetence."

"See, this is what I mean when I say you keep rambling on about stuff! Look, just watch me cast this spell, all right?"

To Talvi's horror, Imoen turned towards the forest and began moving her hands while speaking some sort of arcane incantation, the recitation of which was riddled with egregious errors. "What are you doing?" she cried. "Stop this right now!"

It was too late. There was a bright flash of light, a deafening _bang,_ and suddenly Imoen was crying out in distress. For a second, Talvi feared that she had incinerated herself, but when the dust settled she saw that Imoen was unharmed, yet not unchanged.

"My hair!" she wailed, frantically grabbing at her head. "My hair is _on fire!_ "

Talvi grabbed her by the shoulders. "Your hair isn't on fire, you foolish girl! Get a hold of yourself!"

Despite her words, Imoen was on the verge of panic. "It burns! It _burns!_ Make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop!_ "

"Listen to me! Your hair isn't on fire! It's just been turned into a rather striking hue of pink."

"Really?" she said, her terror dissipating in an instant.

"The same colour as your clothes, actually. What in the Nine Hells sort of spell were you trying to cast, anyhow?"

"I was just trying to do a Colour Spray spell," she said. "Pink, you say?"

Talvi had to resist the urge to give Imoen a good slap. "Consider yourself fortunate that this was the worst thing that happened! If you're going to play around with magic, then you ought to get proper instruction! Hmm, but where could you go to learn such things?" Talvi turned the question over in her mind for several moments. "The lands of Amn to the south are mistrustful of the Art, so you will have to go north. I believe both Neverwinter and Waterdeep possess academic institutions of note, though my recent correspondences have revealed that the standards at the Neverwinter Academy are so abysmally low that they are now admitting utter cretins, so I would not recommend you take up studies at that establishment."

Imoen, however, was more concerned with her hair. She grabbed at her locks, trying to get a look at the colour change she had effected. "Um...is it going to be like this forever?"

Jaheira remained silent throughout all this, yet it was clear from her expression that she completely exasperated at how a sensible man like Gorion had raised such foolish foster-daughters.

"I have no idea. The enchantment may wear off in time, or it may be permanent. Given how badly you mangled the incantation, the spell's true effects are likely unknowable."

To Talvi's surprise, Imoen seemed perfectly all right with this. "Well, I was getting tired of being a boring ol' brunette, anyhow. I'm off to bed now; see ya' in the morning!"

Despite the fact that Imoen's spell had gone rather awry, Talvi was astonished that the girl had actually managed to cast it at all. Perhaps in time, and with proper instruction, she might actually become a proper mage, though it would surely take years of concentrated study.

Not feeling quite tired enough to sleep just yet, Talvi reached into her pack and withdrew one of her books at random. To her display, the book she pulled out was _The Hexer._ She decided to continue reading it, perhaps out of morbid fascination with just how bad it would get.

_"I see you carry two swords, Hexer," said the innkeeper. Her dress displayed generous cleavage. "One is for humans, the other is for monsters, right?"_

_"Both are for monsters," Geirmund growled badassfully._

_The innkeeper frowned. "Then why carry two? Seems a bit silly to go about with all that extra weight on your back."_

_"What I mean is, sometimes it's difficult to tell who the real monsters are in this world."_

_"Don't be foolish! If someone's got horns for teeth and claws as long as your fingers then they're probably a monster, you stupid git! Some monster-slayer you are!"_

_Geirmund gritted his teeth badassfully. "What I'm trying to say is, sometimes humans can be just as monstrous as monsters, if not more so!"_

_The innkeeper blinked. "Well that troll ripped out old Bregan's innards and strung him up by em', and then it used his bones to play his ribs like a xylophone! Never seen any human do anything like that!"_

_Geirmund slammed his fist down on the table. "You just don't get it, do you? This 'moral ambiguity' thing? It's too deep for you! I'm a deep, cynical anti-hero, which means I say deep, cynical things like this! It's not my fault you can't comprehend the depths of my...deepness!"_

_"Oh, shut yer' gob!"_

Talvi closed the book. "Oh my...it's even worse than before..."

* * *

"You have failed, yet you _dare_ to return?"

Seeing Tamoko shrink back from his impending wrath always gave Sarevok a small thrill. His voice was loud enough to echo throughout the breadth of hall, no doubt terrifying the mewling wretches who so frequently infested the Iron Throne headquarters. How wished he redecorate the place according to his taste, packing it to the brim with skulls, spikes, gibbets, breaking wheels, iron maidens, and other symbols of pain and death!

"Milord, I hired only the most skilled bounty hunters. P...perhaps Gorion's Ward is more...resourceful...than we anticipated."

Sarevok loomed over Tamoko, his nostrils flaring with rage. " _Resourceful?_ Talvi Korpela is not a great warrior or cunning assassin! She is nothing but a wisp of an elf who would be blown away by a stiff wind!" Despite the anger in his voice, he did not quite believe his own words. Though he wanted to think that the blood of Bhaal ran thin in Talvi's veins, he could not shake the lingering doubt that she alone, of all Bhaal's brood, would bring about his ruination if he were not careful.

Tamoko, with no small amount of effort, managed to regain her composure. "I will bring you the head of Gorion's Ward, I promise you, milord."

"No, Tamoko, I will handle this myself! I suspect the bounty hunters you have been hiring have not be sufficiently bloodthirsty. Now get out of my sight!"

_Bloody useless woman,_ he thought. Sarevok could scarcely recall what he had ever seen in her. Perhaps, in the days before he had begun to study the prophecies of Bhaal in earnest, he might have felt some affection for her, but now that affection seemed disgustingly trifling. It was no great intellectual achievement to realise that "love" and "the overpowering desire to murder people in the bloodiest manner imaginable" could hardly coexist.

He stormed back upstairs, his armoured boots resulting in numerous gouges across the polished marble floor. His presence never failed to cast a dark cloud over the building, and he could feel the hateful stares of the simpering, snivelling merchants and moneylenders who plagued this place like cockroaches. Rieltar and Brunos had some business they wished to discuss with him, but it could wait until tomorrow. He had already been forced to postpone his druid-slaughtering excursion to Cloakwoad due to some "pressing matters" with the Iron Throne's operations, and this had put him in an even fouler mood than usual.

As it was late in the evening, he decided to turn in for the night. Storming into his bedroom, he did not even bother to get undressed before laying himself down on the stiff slab of wood that was his bed. Yes, most people would find it strange that he slept in his armour, but Sarevok had a very good reason for doing so. It ensured that he would awake feeling stiff and sore all over, and this in turn would make him angry and irritable, and he always found that he could get more done when he was angry and irritable.

His sleep was not restful, however. No sooner had he drifted off than he began to dream, and in this dream he was charging through the halls of Candlekeep, slaughtering the monks and scholars with his mighty two-handed blade, the Sword of Chaos. It was all great sport until he saw Gorion's Ward standing before him defiantly, and being little more than a fragile, delicate elf, Sarevok was sure that she would fall quickly.

But then Talvi drew a sword, a strange-looking weapon the likes of which he had never seen before. It resembled a scimitar with a jagged edge and golden hilt, but the surface of blade appeared to flow like liquid metal. Unnerved by the weapon, but unwilling to back down, Sarevok charged at her and gave a mighty swing of his sword, but when Talvi's blade met his, the Sword of Chaos instantly shattered. With inhuman swiftness, Talvi thrust her blade squarely at his chest, and it cut through his armour like a hot knife through snow.

At that moment, Sarevok felt his body explode into hundreds of little pieces.

"Is that my spleen?" he said, looking down at the bloody mess on the floor. "That's supposed to be inside me, isn't it?" He wondered how he was even capable of sight, given the rapid disassembly of his corporeal form that he had just experienced.

Sarevok awoke with a jolt, then felt a sudden surge of rage. In his dreams he was ever the conqueror. Always he would see a field of bodies lying before him, the sight of which would stir the divine blood within his veins, and he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that this was the only possible future. Yes, the dreams told of what was to come, but what did this new dream portend? That Gorion's Ward would slay him?

_Impossible,_ he thought. But it would be foolish not to prepare for that eventuality, no matter how improbable. Still, that sword Talvi had wielded in the dream perturbed him. His intuition told him that it was not a weapon meant for those of this plane, and the fact that it was in her hand was an utter mockery of the laws of the multiverse.

Sarevok shook his head. It was folly to place too much faith in dreams, omens, and portents. He was a man who made his own fate, and he would not be tossed about by the forces of destiny like so many others. His coin was on its edge.

* * *

The group had scarcely finished their breakfast before Minsc was leading them through the wilderness once again. From what she could tell, he was taking them in a southerly direction, following a river that slowly curved away to the south-east. Every so often he would stop, look about as if in deep contemplation (or as deep in concentration as Minsc could be, which wasn't very deep), and then whisper something to his hamster. At this point, perhaps after receiving some pearl of wisdom from the rodent, he would stride away with greater confidence than before, assured of his direction.

By now Talvi was beginning to doubt Minsc's qualifications as a ranger, and the notion that his animal companion was, in fact, a miniature giant space hamster seemed about as plausible as a kobold bard.

To take her mind off her troubles, she spoke to Imoen about a subject that weighed heavily on her heart – the appalling state of adventure novels in Faerûn.

"I say, that _Hexer_ book you provided me gets worse with every page I read! Honestly, Imoen, I don't know what you find so appealing about this affront to the written word. From what blighted corner of Toril does this tome originate, anyhow?"

Imoen shrugged. "'Dunno, but I heard it was published in Neverwinter."

"Neverwinter!" Talvi gasped. "How horrifyingly unsurprising! That was the city that birthed the equally dreadful _A Song of Blood and Thunder!_ The corruption inside the Jewel of the North must run even deeper than I imagined, and I suspect that it is teetering on the edge of the abyss. Were it not for our present troubles, I would proceed to that city in all haste to root out the malign presence that festers within its dark places. Instead, I must contact someone in a position of authority; someone who is capable of operating outside of official channels. With any luck, they shall uncover these purveyors of this vile literature, who shall then be tried before Lord Nasher himself. I, of course, shall act as prosecutor, exposing their sins before the unwavering gaze of Tyr. What the sentence shall be for their crimes is not for me to decide, but I do hope that renders them into a state in which they are unable to foist any further literary abominations upon the world."

Imoen calmly took all of this in, then replied, "Huh, I could really see you in a courtroom, Talvi. You'd talk everyone to death for sure!"

She ignored her jibe. "To face an elf in a court of law, let alone an arcane scholar of Candlekeep, would be the very height of folly. But back to what we were discussing – the matter of your appalling taste in literature. You must simply cease reading such tomes as _The Hexer_. Not only will they surely pervert your sense of good taste, they may ultimately be very damaging to the soul. I believe my revulsion to these sorts of novels reflects the similar revulsion that would be experienced by Lady Goldheart herself when confronted with such transgressions against any criteria of decency. This alone should inform you of how offensive works such as _The Hexer_ are to the elven spirit."

"Aw, you're all buffle-headed," said Imoen, employing the phrase she always used whenever Talvi started off on one of her rants. "Maybe it just wasn't written for elves. You ever think of that, huh?"

"Indeed, perhaps the novel's contemptible cynicism and general misanthropy speaks to some particular perversion present in the human race. Of course, it is entirely possible that this is the work of a dwarf, though that leads me to wonder what sort of things the rock-eaters might write about. Perhaps a dwarven author might tell of his love of ale, his baffling obsession with endless toil and drudgery, or the exquisiteness of his ladyfriend's beard."

She gave Talvi a puzzled look. "Beard?"

"Dwarven women have beards, Imoen. Surely you must remember that from your lessons in Candlekeep."

"Then how do they tell who's a man or a woman?"

"I do not know. Perhaps there is something about the gait of a dwarven woman that is distinctive, or perhaps dwarves identify members of one gender or another through some sort of scent recognition..."

Behind them, Jaheira shook her head, once again asking herself how Gorion could have raised a child so different from himself.

It was just past midday when they neared the shores of the Sea of Swords, and all of a sudden Minsc came to a stop and pointed to some location far off in the distance. "There!" he cried. "That is where the foul gnolls have taken Dynaheir. Onward, friends!"

Barely visible through the haze was a fortress resting atop a bit of land jutting out into the sea. As they drew nearer, Talvi could see that it was quite a sizeable defensive structure, with turrets and ramparts, but it was quite clear even from a distance that it had seen better days. The sandstone walls were worn by wind and wave, and several sections of the stronghold had collapsed into the sea.

Imoen stopped and took in a few sharp breaths of the salty, ocean air. "Kinda reminds ya' of Candlekeep, don't it? You ever miss that place?"

Her question sent a pang of sadness through Talvi's heart. "Of...of course I do! I miss everything about Candlekeep. Well, not _quite_ everything; I don't miss those damned Chanters, that is for certain! Always standing underneath my window, always chanting those bloody prophecies of Alaundo over and over for no reason. They've been worse than ever these past few weeks."

"Why?"

"They seemed to have gotten it into their ogre-like minds to recite endlessly Alaundo's prophecies regarding the children of Bhaal – a more offensive and distasteful subject I can scarcely imagine. Despite my pleadings and imprecations they steadfastly refused to chant about anything else."

Imoen giggled. "You know, I heard that when Bhaal was gettin' busy, he shape-shifted into all kinds of things, like dragons and ogres."

"Yes, I am quite aware of that dead god's despicable acts. He even managed to seduce lesser creatures, such as rabbits, donkeys, cats, dogs, and beavers."

"Beavers?"

"You heard correctly. Indeed, I once read an account of a Bhaalspawn beaver who caused unreckonable havoc in the High Forest. In his outward appearance he was indistinguishable from others of his species, but his behaviour was most flagitious. Instead of felling trees, he felled people, either thrashing them to death with his tail or simply gnawing off their legs. He built his dam and lodge from their bones – truly a ghastly sight – and he continued his reign of terror until he was at last slain by a winged seven-foot-tall aasimar paladin from the nearby village of Hilltop. A bard penned a popular song about the matter; I believe it is called _A Very Gnawty Ballad._ As you might expect from its atrocious title, it is complete dreck."

When they neared the fortress, they saw that the only way to gain entrance was to traverse a decrepit rope bridge spanning a deep chasm. A pair of gnolls, truly horrid creatures by any estimation, stood guard, wielding battered, rusting halberds and looking rather unhappy with their posting. Jaheira silently gestured for the group to take cover behind a sharp outcropping of rock, and they all quickly followed her save for Minsc, who looked quite puzzled at the fact that they were not charging blindly on.

Talvi surveyed the fortress, and what she saw was disheartening. Dozens of gnolls were visible along the walls, and even this distance she found herself utterly repulsed by them. They were tall, humanoid creatures that resembled a hideous conjoining of man and hyena, and they were every bit as cruel and violent as the latter. Worse, the group had the misfortune of being downwind from the fortress, and the peculiar reek of the gnolls stung her nostrils. She could only imagine how bad they would smell close-up.

"A frontal attack would be foolish," Jaheira said, looking as though she would rather be anywhere else.

"Perhaps a spell of invisibility would allow one of us to get inside without attracting attention," Talvi suggested.

Imoen agreed. "Yeah, this calls for sneakin', not fightin'!"

Minsc was having none of this. "What? Spells and sneaking are not how one goes about heroing!" He looked down at his hamster. "Yes, Boo, I agree! It looks like we must show them how a true hero gets things done!"

Before any of them could say a word, Minsc drew his enormous two-handed sword and charged down the pathway to the bridge. The two gnolls brandished their halberds when he drew near, yet oddly enough did not attack immediately.

"You there!" Minsc bellowed, loud enough for everyone in the fortress to hear him. "I demand that you release fair Dynaheir at once or face my wrath! I will not ask you a second time!"

Talvi was too far away to hear the gnolls' reply, but evidently it was not to Minsc's liking, because he grabbed one of the gnolls by the neck and hurled him over the edge of the rope bridge. Before the other gnoll could react Minsc given him a swift kick to the torso that sent him tumbling down to join his companion on the hard rocks below.

Minsc looked back and gestured for the others to join him. "Onward, friends! To battle!"

His shouts had alerted the rest of the gnolls in the fortress, and at least two dozen of them were hurrying down the steps to deal with the intruders, each one wielding a crudely-fashioned but vicious-looking halberd. Talvi was certain Minsc was about to get himself violently slain, but the ranger stood his ground, looking positively ecstatic at the prospect of facing battle whilst vastly outnumbered.

Yet there was a method to his madness. Minsc stood on a narrow set of stairs leading up to the higher levels of fortress, meaning that only a handful of gnolls could face him at any one moment.

By the time Talvi and the others caught up to him, he was already hacking and hewing and hackling the gnolls, who were falling beneath his massive sword like grass before the wind.

"What's that, Boo?" he cried, parrying a blow. "'Kill them all'? Good idea!"

Having spent all her life in Candlekeep, Talvi had little first-hand experience with battle, save for the training drills of the Watchers, and now that she had an opportunity to witness combat and swordplay with her own eyes, she was sickened at the sight of it. Minsc was tearing into the gnolls with the fury of a man possessed by some demon from the Abyss, as though he bore some great hatred for their race in particular. None of them could land a blow on him, or if they did, he simply appeared not to notice.

With Minsc blocking the narrow pathway, and wanting to stay out of reaching of his swinging sword, the group could do little except follow him as he carved his way through his foes, turning the stone beneath his feet slick with blood and gore.

" _Kill says Boo! Kill does Minsc!_ _RAAAAAGHHH!_ " He impaled one of the gnolls on his sword, then kicked it away, sending the vile creature tumbling down the wall. Another gnoll swung at him with its halberd, but the ranger whirled around and beheaded it with one blow.

Talvi turned away, suddenly nauseated. She knew that she did not have much of a stomach for violence, but there was something about the way Minsc tore his opponents to pieces that was profoundly disturbing.

Showing no signs of slowing down, and demonstrating no noticeable tiredness, Minsc reached the top of the pathway and came to the highest level of the fortress. More gnolls awaited him there, and rather than doing the sensible thing and luring them onto the narrow stairway where their numbers would count for nothing, he stupidly charged into the waiting horde with no apparent regard for his own life.

Talvi, covering her nose to keep out the horrid stench of the gnolls, followed her companions up, carefully stepping over the bloody, dismembered corpses along the way. Judging from the sounds she was hearing from above, Minsc was busying hacking his way through yet another horde of adversaries.

When she came to the top of the keep, it was even worse than she imagined.

_By the gods,_ she thought. _Such barbarity!_ Talvi had read about the frenzied states that Rashemi berserkers could drive themselves to, but seeing it with her own eyes was something else.

For one thing, she would never have imagined that it was possible to hit someone with a sword so hard that he exploded.

"I dare say Minsc need not have brought us here at all," Jaheira remarked, appearing surprisingly unperturbed by the carnage around her. Her husband, on the other hand, looked as though he were about to vomit, while Imoen seemed like she was off in an entirely different world altogether.

After a terrifyingly short length of time, there were but a few gnolls remaining, one of which was festooned in rusting armour and crudely-fashioned tribal talismans and totems. Judging from his appearance, Talvi guessed that he was the chieftain of this particular tribe.

" _Ssshhtop, human!_ " the gnoll snarled, his red eyes glowing with hatred. " _We only wishhh to shhhpeak-_ "

Minsc, unfortunately, was not in the mood for talking. " _YAAAAAAGGHH!_ " he screamed, separating the chieftain's head from his body with one swing of his sword. The remaining gnolls, possessed of sufficient intelligence to realise that their bloody death was at hand, turned and fled.

At long last the Rashemi ranger his expended seemingly-boundless reserves of energy, and he looked upon the carnage he had wrought with pride. He was panting heavily, drenched in blood, and looking immensely satisfied with himself.

Talvi, on the other hand, felt dizzy and faint just looking at all the blood around her, so she stared off into the sky, wishing that this whole ordeal was over and done with.

"Ha!" Minsc bellowed. "Now the gnolls will know not to mess with Minsc and Boo! Come, friends, let us search for fair Dynaheir!"

The upper half of the fortress had fallen into such a state of disrepair that it was little more than a heap of rubble, and so the gnolls had kept their prisoners in dank, filthy pits atop the keep prior to devouring them. Already disgusted beyond measure from what she had just witnessed, Talvi had no desire to go looking through the half-eaten remains of the gnolls' captives.

Fortunately for all of them, Minsc quickly located his charge and pulled her from the dark and dismal hole in which she had been placed.

Dynaheir was a rather exotic-looking woman, at least in Talvi's eyes. She was tall and dark-skinned, clad in a purple robe that looked immaculate despite the length of imprisonment. Indeed, she held her head high with pride, and her haughty expression suggested that she viewed her period of captivity as being little more than a mild inconvenience.

"Minsc," she said, "I had no doubt that thou wouldst soon show thyself." Her accent was thick, even thicker than Minsc's, and Talvi could not help but notice that it was quite similar to Jaheira's accent. "But who are these strangers who accompany thee?"

"Never fear, Dynaheir, for they have curried favour with Minsc! When I bade them that they should come and rescue you, they accepted without a moment's pause!"

Dynaheir looked the group over, her gaze lingering long upon all of them. Her expression was one of mild disapproval, as though they had failed to meet her exceedingly exacting standards. "I have no doubt that they shall prove to be...interesting...companions. Now let us return to Nashkel, for I am eager to be elsewhere."

As they departed the fortress, Talvi tried to avoid looking at the trail of corpses Minsc had left. Though gnolls were known far and wide as evil creatures, she could not but feel as though they should have sought a less bloody solution to their problem. It was what Gorion would have wanted, at any rate.

"It would seem that you did not need our help at all," she said to Minsc, quickening her past to keep up with the giant of a man.

"It is true, the gnolls did not stand a chance against my berserker strength. But Boo tells me it was no accident that you met us in Nashkel. No, it could only be fate that you have come under the watchful gaze of an all-knowing rodent!"

Talvi got the sinking feeling that they were going to be stuck with this madman and his hamster for the rest of their journey. She turned her thoughts to more pleasing subjects, such as contemplating the means by which she could finally destroy her nemesis Qara (for that was what Talvi considered her now). Her most promising idea was mailing her a cursed scroll of stupidity, but she had no idea where to obtain such a thing, and more importantly, she hadn't the gold to pay for postage.


	7. Your Possible Selves

Chapter 7 – Your Possible Selves

* * *

_"_ _Ask not the Tel'Quessir a question, for they will give thee three answers, all of which are true and terrifying to know." - Elminster_

_It would seem, dear reader, that just as I have become accustomed to life on the road, the Fates see fit to pull the rug out from under me. Earlier this day I, along with my associates and companions, followed our Rashemi ranger to a decrepit stronghold south-west of Nashkel. We hoped to rescue his woebegone witch Dynaheir from a tribe of gnolls, and bearing in mind my foster-father's words, "Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent," I had hoped that we might succeed in this endeavour without resorting to bloodshed. Yet Minsc sprang into battle unbidden, giving no consideration to any alternative approach to our conundrum and throwing himself into the berserker fury for which his kind are infamous. It was truly a sickening and horrific sight, as he tore into the gnolls with an ecstatic frenzy that was utterly_ _appalling_ _in its barbarity. I dare say that Minsc would find himself in good company amongst the Uthgardt and Reghedmen._

_We were able to rescue Dynaheir from her captivity despite Minsc's recklessness, and though I have had little opportunity to speak with her, it is quite obvious that she is far more refined of manner than her companion._

_Imoen continues to express her desire to follow The Witch Path as I do,_ _despite her lacking any sort of scholarly inclination. The other day she attempted to cast a spell, which predictably went awry and resulted in her hair taking on striking mulberry hue. She seemed unperturbed at her close brush with catastrophe,_ _and_ _so_ _I hope that I_ _shall be_ _able to impress upon her that the Art is not something to be trifled with._ _She must learn that magic is best approached with thorough and rigorous study instead of whimsical impulsiveness._

_-_ _Your Adventuring Elf_

_Recommended reading:_

_Khatar, Mariel,_ Rock Eaters They Are Not _(A fascinating look into dwarven society)_

_Ergalla, Velondorius,_ The Ashen Children _(A harrowing account of the moral grotesquery of the drow)_

_Anonymous,_ Seventeen Songs of Hanali Celanil _(I defy any elf not to weep with joy when she hears such beautiful verses as these)_

_La'neral, Synth,_ The Ruins of Barghanzthand _(A most entertaining tale of an ill-fated archaeological expedition to a dwarven ruin)_

_Bobblegnonker, Gooblegrinder,_ Hinglorious Basterds _(A rollicking tale of a halfling adventuring troupe)_

"You sure spend a lot of time writing in that journal," said Imoen, taking a large gulp of ale from her tankard.

"Of course I do," Talvi replied. "Writing is an art that requires constant practice if one is to maintain and develop one's abilities."

The group had found themselves in yet another dingy, dimly-lit tavern, this one titled _The Belching Dragon._ As befitting an establishment bearing such a crude name, the place was quite rowdy and uncivilised, and worse, Talvi suspected that the wine they were serving was watered down. Khalid and Jaheira were bickering about something or other, while Minsc, already deep into his cups, was loudly regaling Dynaheir with the tale of their assault on the gnoll fortress.

"Speaking of books," Talvi began, "if you wish to study the Art in earnest, Imoen, then you must get into the habit of subjecting your arcane tomes to a thorough reading before going to sleep. And you must commit the contents of your spellbook to memory so that you have your spells ready and prepared first thing in the morning."

Imoen took another drink. "If you say so."

Quite certain she wasn't paying an attention, Talvi redoubled her efforts. "Let me test the extent of your arcane knowledge. Do you what the difference is between a spell of summoning and a gate spell?"

She shrugged. "Not really."

Talvi sighed. "A spell of summoning merely compels the forces of the Weave to reconfigure themselves into the simulacrum of the summoned referent, whereas a gate spell manifests as a hyperspherical penetration of the interplanar limen through which the transpontine referent is conveyed into the Prime Material Plane in accordance with Valyra's Fifth Law regarding the conservation of transplanar energy. Look, is any of this getting through to you?"

"Yeah, totally." Imoen suddenly looked towards the tavern door. "Hey look, it's Volo!"

Sure enough, the famous traveller and storyteller had just wandered into the _The Belching Dragon,_ bearing the self-satisfied smirk of a man who would have to travel five thousand miles or so before he found someone who hadn't heard of him. Talvi, however, wasn't about to join the chorus of sycophants who would surely be swarming him any moment now, begging for an autograph or some other trifle.

Like many humans, Volo sported rather extensive facial hair, something Talvi found repulsive (back in Candlekeep she had always urged Gorion to get rid of his, yet he had always ignored her), and this only added to her feelings of contempt. She stood up from her table and marched over to the entrance.

"Volothamp Geddarm."

He turned to face her with a thoroughly revolting smirk on his face. "Well now, I haven't been addressed in that tone of voice since when my mother would scold me. What's this about, friend?"

Talvi crossed her arms. "I am here to place you under arrest for your crimes against the written word."

Volo gave her a sly grin, as if this weren't the first time this accusation had been levelled against him. "On who's authority? You're not from my publisher, are you?"

"I am Talvi Korpela, arcane scholar of Candlekeep. In addition to offending the gods of Good Taste and Decency, your works _Volo's Guide to the Sword Coast_ and _Volo's Guide to All Things Magical_ contain numerous factual errors and inaccuracies that might lead an unwary adventurer to his demise. His blood would be on your hands."

As before, Volo was unfazed by her opprobrium. "If you had read the fine print on the front matter, you have discovered that I gave no guarantee of completeness or accuracy. Now, I could tell from the moment I set eyes on you that you were an adventurer, and the only reason an adventurer would come to this little burg is because of the trouble in the mines. So how about, in exchange for dropping these 'charges' of yours, I tell you about everything that's been going on around Nashkel."

Talvi thought it over for a few seconds. "Your proposal is acceptable. Please, join me and my companions over at our table. I warn you, though, we are all highly-educated intellectual titans who will see through any fabrications or exaggerations you might contrive."

"Er...yes."

Imoen was positively beaming with delight when Talvi brought him back to their table. "Wow, it's Volo! You're the most famous person I've ever met!"

This elicited a harsh glance from Talvi. "I would say that Khelben "Blackstaff" most surely holds that distinction, Imoen."

"Yeah, but no one reads Khelben's stuff!"

Much to her displeasure, Volo began speaking before Talvi could give Imoen a proper upbraiding for her remark. "Now, before I can tell you about what's been happening, I'm going to need a tankard or two of ale to loosen my tongue." He shouted at one of the barmaids to get him a drink, and the young woman responded with a disgusted snort. Evidently he had a reputation around these parts.

Jaheira, likewise, did not conceal her disdain. "I would hope, Volo, that you do not intend to leave us with the tab when you are finished here."

He shrank back in mock offence. "I must say, this new generation of adventurers has no respect whatsoever."

Talvi took umbrage at that. "What do you mean, 'new generation'? I am an elf; for all you know, I could be five centuries your senior."

"True, but I know a band of untested adventurers when I see them. No offence, we all have to start somewhere." The second his ale arrived Volo took a hearty swig and began recounting his tale. "Now, about the Nashkel mines. Word is that every piece of iron coming out of that pit is tainted, and any tools or weapons made with it fall to pieces faster than an elf..." He did not complete his simile, suddenly realising that he was in the company of the Fair Folk. "Er...what I was saying is, the iron from the Nashkel mines is no good, and what's worse, there's talk of something that's killing the miners."

"And what is this 'something'?" Talvi asked.

"No one knows. I've heard talk of demons, dragons, duergar, even a horde of undead dire badgers. But what's really got people worried are the bandit raids along the Sword Coast. I've heard that humans _and_ demihumans are raiding caravans, looking for every scrap of iron that they're carrying, and people are starting to think there's a connection between the raids and the trouble in the mines. The Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate are getting worried; they think this is some Amnian plot to weaken the Flaming Fist as a prelude to an invasion."

"And what do _you_ think?"

"I wouldn't put it past Amn, myself; who knows what the Council of Six gets up to these days, but if they were trying to choke off the supply of iron, they wouldn't be so butcherly as to murder their own miners. No, word is that the Zhentarim are behind it, hoping that a war will weaken the major powers in the region."

"Hmm, that does sound quite plausible, though we suspect that the evidence pointing to the Zhentarim has been fabricated," said Talvi. "Now, I must ask you...have you any plans to travel to the city of Neverwinter in the near-future?"

Jaheira rolled her eyes and Imoen sighed, but Talvi paid no attention to them. "Why do want to know?" Volo asked, sounding a bit suspicious.

Her tone was one part urgency and one part desperation. "Because as dire as this 'iron crisis' is, I fear that a far greater crisis is at hand in the Jewel of the North. It is a crisis of spirit, a titanic struggle between the bulwarks of Good Taste and Decency and the malefic and mendacious seeds of Decadence and Cynicism whose pestiferous and diseased tendrils are even now beginning to take root in the fair city of Neverwinter. And from these roots shall spring a flower which does not blossom, but burst into flame! A flame that will consume the Jewel of the North in a mad orgy of nihilism and contempt! Brothers killing brothers, the streets running red, elves and dwarves living together! You must go there, Volo, and warn the people before it is too late!"

He quietly pushed his chair away from the table. "Erm...yes. To tell the truth I was, uh, planning to head south. To Amn."

"Then perhaps you might know of someone in Neverwinter, someone who is capable of standing against this corruption, someone who can operate outside of the traditional institutions of power."

Volo ran his fingers through his beard. "I have heard that there is an elven paladin who serves Neverwinter, who goes by the name of Aribeth de Tylmarande-"

Talvi's eyes lit up. "An elven paladin? This is precisely who is needed to root out the corruption; perhaps she has even sensed it herself. I must write to her at once and inform her of what is transpiring."

By now Volo was looking about for any opportunity to exit this conversation, thinking to himself that these "adventurers" were hopelessly out of their depth and liable to get themselves killed in short order. "Yes, um, well...good luck with that. Now I must be off...this new book of mine isn't going to write itself, you know!"

With that Volo stood up and hurried to the exit, leaving Talvi and the others rather nonplussed. "How very rude," she pouted. "I dare say Volo's reputation is far greater than he is."

* * *

They stayed the night the Nashkel Inn, a rather dull, working-class establishment whose general character left Talvi with numerous doubts as to the cleanliness of the rooms. After studying her spellbook, she spent a good-half hour ensuring that the bedsheets were clean and free of bedbugs or any other pests. Once she had determined that the upkeep of the room was up to her standards, Talvi crawled into bed, completely naked as was her wont.

She normally paid no attention to her dreams, being the noisy blurs of total nonsense that they were, but this one would remain in her thoughts for some time afterwards.

A long, dark hallway stretched before her, with innumerable passages leading off to the left and right, each one with signs above it that read _if-then_ or _what-then_ or _who-then_ , and after making her way down that gloomy hall she came to the space that was not a space.

"This is quite out of it entirely," Talvi thought to herself. "I do believe I have stepped inside a tesseract of some sort. Only an elven mind can fully comprehend the profane mysteries of higher dimensional thought."

" _What would_ _you be_ _if you were not yourself?_ " spoke a voice that could only speak upside-down.

A hundred hooting owls swarmed about her, endlessly chattering to themselves and shaking their heads and whinging about "What's to be done with this Talvi Korpela?"

"Owls are silly birds," she said.

" _You are a very silly girl,_ " one of the owls replied, before metamorphosing into a three-legged goat with a lazy eye.

" _Have you ever thought of your possible selves?_ " asked the voice again, which was now speaking sideways and at an oblique angle. " _When I dream, I dream a dream of you in other, darker worlds. And when they speak of you they speak not your name, but titles and acclamations. 'Farseer', 'Nerevarine', 'Shadowrunner'...do you know these names, elf? For you have worn them all._ "

Talvi began wringing her hands. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the owls."

* * *

"Minsc, thy warrior spirit is not in doubt, but must thou take to drink so early in the morning?"

Dynaheir's chiding was little more than noise to the ranger, who downed another flagon of cheap ale with gusto. "Drink is the joy of the Rashemi!" he cried triumphantly.

As usual, Talvi was the last one to awaken, and she found her companions waiting for her in the main room of the inn. She dreaded the thought of venturing into the Nashkel mines – underground was no place for an elf to be – and seeing Minsc eagerly guzzling whatever cheap swill he favoured did not improve her expectations for the day.

"Minsc," she began, staying a good distance away from him lest he accidentally spill some ale on her, "now that you've found your charge, there's no reason you must travel with us." She then turned to Dynaheir. "You have not even told me why you are so far from your homeland."

Her rebuke was swift and sharp, as if merely being questioned were an offence."A _wychlaran_ keepeth her secrets well."

"Yes, we shall tell no one that we seek the spawn of Bhaal foretold in the prophecy!" Minsc added.

Dynaheir slapped her forehead. "Minsc, if thou wishest to pass thy _dajemma,_ then thou wouldst do well to know when _not to speak!_ "

Talvi was taken aback. "Bhaalspawn? And what makes you think we would have anything to do with them?"

"I do not know," Dynaheir answered, but I feel that trouble in the Nashkel mines may be linked with the prophecies of Alaundo. How, I cannot say, nor can I say how one might recognise a spawn of Bhaal..."

"I'll bet they're ten feet tall and shoot bolts of flaming death from their eyes," said Imoen.

Jaheira cleared her throat. "If you are done with your idle talk..."

"Erm, yes," said Talvi, "let us be off to the mines, then!"

They had barely gone ten feet out the door when it began to rain. It started as a gentle drizzle at first, but soon it turned into a continuous downpour that left Talvi's robes sopping wet. Not long after the wind picked up, blowing the wet, matted clumps of her hair into her face.

"Oh dear," Khalid mumbled, "I do hope this r-r-rain doesn't make my armour r-r-rust..."

Imoen, totally oblivious to the worsening weather, playfully slapped him on the shoulder. "You're such a worrier, Khalid! You need to loosen up!"

"If I d-d-don't worry, then something b-b-bad will happen..."

She turned her attention to Jaheira. "Can you ask something, Aunty Jaheira?"

Jaheira gave her a look that was one half amusement, one half annoyance. "'Aunty'?"

"Yeah, I mean, I don't have a real family or nothing, so you're gonna be my aunty from now on, okay?"

"Very well, ask your question," she said with a sigh.

"What's it like being a druid? Do you really talk to plants and stuff?"

"One does not _speak_ with nature, for it wordless. One _communes_ with it, one is in _harmony_ with it. One must learn to understand the whims of nature before one can serve the balance."

"And can you really turn into an animal, like a wolf or a bear?"

"Yes, those sufficiently versed in the druidic rites may learn to take the shape of any of nature's children..."

"And is it true that at midnight on the summer solstice all the druids throw off their clothes and make wild crazy love to each other?"

Jaheira froze. "Good gracious child, where did you hear such a ridiculous notion?"

Imoen shrugged. "I read it in a book somewhere."

"A book by someone who cared only about pandering to readers' prurient interests, no doubt. I do not know why people assume that serving the balance makes one into some sort of nymphomaniac."

"Speaking of nature," Talvi said as the group crested the top of a small hill, "one can see a most atrocious violation of her sanctity over yonder."

By this she meant the Nashkel mine, of course, and Jaheira shared her revulsion at what the miners had done to the land. It had not been enough to burrow into the ground. No, the miners had carved a great gaping wound, resembling a suppurating carbuncle upon the earth. When they neared the edge of the pit, Talvi was nearly overwhelmed with the thick air of manual labour. Treadwheel cranes lined the edge of the pit, and below a handful of dirty miners pushed of string of empty mine carts along a rail track. There were a number of guards present, though whether they were there to protect the miners or to ensure they didn't start slacking off was anyone's guess.

"What a thoroughly depressing sight!" Talvi exclaimed. "Why, Chauntea herself would heave and retch at what these people have done! Just look at those grubby, miserable people down there, toiling about wearing nothing but threadbare trousers and worn-out shoes..."

The rest of the group ignored her complaints and made their way down into the pit, forcing Talvi to run and catch up. No one working at the mine paid them any attention; this was not the first adventuring party that had come in response the troubles they were having, and they wouldn't be the last, or so they figured.

"Notice the disconsolate looks on their faces," she whispered to Imoen while pointing at several of the miners. "I dare say the relentless wheels of industry have thoroughly broken their spirits."

Jaheira quickly identified the man in charge of the mine, a man whose withered hide and harsh glare instantly identified him as a hard, unsentimental individual with an eye towards profit. Every so often he would cast a glance at the workers around him in the hopes of catching someone in a moment of idleness.

"More adventurers come to take a look at my mine, is it?" he said brusquely. "Then I'll you what I told the last group of idiots to come this way: I don't know what's killing the men, and don't you listen to a thing they say, 'cause their heads are full of nonsense. Damned Amnians anyhow."

"You are not from here?" Talvi asked, pushing past Jaheira.

The man growled in disgust. "You're damn right I'm not from here! Came to Amn to make my fortune, I did. Didn't tell me anything about how stupid Amnian folk are. Why, I bet Baldur's Gate could take over this whole country if they just marched in backwards, 'cause people here would think they were leaving!"

"I see," said Jaheira, turning towards the mine entrance. "So if you will permit us to enter the-"

The mine boss stamped his foot. "Look at me when I'm ranting at you, damn it! I think this whole 'iron crisis' is because the people in this mine couldn't match wits with a gully dwarf!"

One of the miners was passing by as he made this remark, and he hung his head in dismay. "That was uncalled for."

"Shut up and get back to work!"

Jaheira ignored him and lead the group to the mine's entrance. Even with her low-light vision, Talvi could not see far inside, and this filled her with trepidation. Being underground for dwarves, drow, and deep gnomes, she figured, and the warnings from the guards didn't exactly fill her confidence.

"Watch yourself if you're going in there, citizen," one of them said. "I wouldn't go down to the lower levels, if I were you. Folks that get sent down there don't come back up."

"Oh dear, I don't think I'm going to like this," she said quietly after but a few steps into the darkness.

"Come on, it's not so bad," Imoen replied, sounding almost cheerful. "It's just like the Candlekeep catacombs!"

Talvi froze. " _What?_ We were told never to go down there! Some of the greatest sages who ever lived lie there in eternal repose, and I don't think they would appreciate you taking their most cherished possessions!"

"I didn't steal nothin' or anything!" she protested. "Why do you always think I'm stealin' stuff?"

"Because I'm quite certain that sack of gems and jewels under your bed wasn't conjured into existence!"

Jaheira cleared her throat. "If you two are finished arguing, we have a task to accomplish."

They had barely gone more than a dozen steps before Talvi's heart began pounding her chest. The walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in on her, and all she could think of was how much rock there had to be above her head and how the slightest disturbance could bring it all down. It did not help that the support columns were made of rotting timbers, or that the mine was so dark it was amazing that the miners could even find their way around.

Fighting down panic, Talvi darted towards one of the lanterns that provided a truly dismal level of illumination. She then closed her eyes and imagined herself in a happier time and a happier place, such as poring over tomes in Candlekeep or frolicking naked in the woods. That she had not yet had an opportunity to indulge in this activity irked her, to put it mildly.

She opened her eyes and looked at the lantern, noticing the words _P.J. Stanford's Non-Explosive Burning Fluid_ etched into the fount. For some reason, she did not find this at all reassuring.

Ahead, the passage opened up into a large, central chamber where mine carts were gathered. Several more passages branched out into the darkness, and Talvi imagined all manner of horrors that could be lurking deep within the earth. The sheer oppressiveness of being underground was beginning to weigh down upon her, and she found it difficult to breathe. How was it that the dwarves could tolerate living like this?

Her rumination was interrupted by the sound of someone coughing loudly. A man, dirty and dishevelled, came walking towards them, carrying a pickaxe. He was wearing nothing but a pair of filthy trousers, and he looked as though he hadn't seen the sun in months.

"Bah! Blasted adventurers!" he spat, his words punctuated by coughing. "You'd best be turning around; nothin' you can do about that pack of demons that moved into the lower mines."

Khalid shrank back. "D...d... _demons?_ "

"Yep, demons! Dug too deep, we did. That old coot Gord will tell you that it's really the souls of all those who've died in the mine come back for revenge, but he's a drunkard, so don't listen to him."

If poking about the bowels of the earth was terrifying, Talvi found that righteous outrage easily trumped fear. "What? Why are they having you work when there is such an obvious danger in the mines?" she exclaimed.

The man stared at her, puzzled. "Don't know what you're talking about, elf. Got to feed my family somehow."

"Bah! Do you not realise that the owner of this open wound upon the earth cares nothing for your welfare, but only for his own profits? He might sack one or two of you, but he cannot sack everyone, lest the whole mine grind to a halt. Therefore, you must forthwith band together with your fellow miners and create a fellowship to represent your interests to the cruel and avaricious owners of this mine. While I and my companions continue our investigation into the lower levels of the mine, you and the workers must confront your masters and demand a cessation of work until this crisis has passed. Go now! You have nothing to lose but your chains!"

"Hmm, I never thought about anything like that."

"Of course you haven't. I am sure that it is your masters' wish that you remain ignorant of the true injustice of your situation. Perhaps they have convinced you that there is something noble or virtuous about drudgery, or some other farcical notion."

The volume of her voice was enough for other miners to hear, and they began gathering around her. The miner Talvi had just been speaking turned around addressed his fellow workers. "I think you all need to hear what this elf is sayin'!" he told them.

"And what I'm saying is this," Talvi continued. "You have all been cruelly misused by your employers. What sort of heartless fiend would send you to work in these hellish depths when countless others of your brethren have been killed by some unknown assailants? Why do you stand for this?"

"She's right!" said one of the miners. "And the ore we dig up is no good, anyway!"

"You must storm the office of the mine boss at the moment when he will least expect it; perhaps first thing the next day, when his mind will surely be clouded by the psychic fog of early morning. But you must ensure that you do not resort to violence, or you will have precipitated little more than a riot. Now, with any luck, word of your revolt shall inspire similar uprisings in other locales-"

Jaheira grabbed Talvi's arm and pulled away as the rest of her companions made their way deeper into the mines. "Unhand me, woman!" she protested. "These pitiable folk must be made aware of the grave injustice inflicted upon them by the profiteering blackguards-"

"Another time, perhaps," Jaheira snapped, not even bothering to look back.

While Talvi's sense of anxiety at being so far underground was beginning to wane, Khalid was on the verge of panic. "There are s-s-so many places I would r-r-rather be..."

"Fear not, fellow warrior!" Minsc cried. "Wherever ever lurks in this dark place, Minsc and Boo shall smoke it out!" He spun around to face the dark passageway ahead. " _Do you hear me, evil?_ " he thundered. " _You have earned the wrath of Minsc! Watch out, for I take LARGE STEPS!_ "

"Be silent, Minsc!" Dynaheir hissed. "Dost thou wish everyone to hear us?"

As if in reply, there came the sound of something skittering about the in the darkness. Talvi looked behind her, trying to find a path by which they might retreat should they find themselves overwhelmed. But the mines' passages seemed to twist and turn back on themselves, to the point where she could not remember how they gotten to where they were now. Perhaps if she had been born a dwarf, she reckoned, she might have been able to find her way back to the surface, but her elven senses did not avail her now.

Imoen drew her shortbow and nocked an arrow, while Jaheira and Khalid stood ready with theirs swords and shields. Whatever creatures were approaching, they were numerous and belligerent.

And then there came the noise.

It was a chorus of yipping and barking, like a horde of small, angry dogs out for blood. "Kobolds," Jaheira growled, having evidently dealt with these creatures before.

A half-second later, Talvi heard the sound of an arrow flying through the air, followed by a dull _thunk_ as it hit Khalid's shield, causing him to shrink back in terror.

More arrows came flying, forcing the group to retreat down the tunnel. Talvi's mind worked frantically to figure out which spell she should cast. A fireball would utterly annihilate the kobolds, but she couldn't see them in the darkness, and worse, the blast might cause the roof to collapse, the thought of which was too horrifying to imagine.

A few moments later, they saw them. Dozens of small, dragon-like monsters, yipping and shrieking, swarming out of the darkness, some armed with bows, others with daggers and short swords. They filled the air with their pungent stench, a mixture of wet dog and stagnant water, and their cacophonous barking was so loud in the confined space of the passageway that it was impossible to hear anything else.

But they _could_ hear one thing: Minsc's roaring battle cry.

Demonstrating the exact same reckless abandon and complete disregard for his own life that he had displayed back at the gnolls' fortress, he charged into the waiting horde of kobolds, cleaving one in two with his sword before they could react.

Their yipping ceased, and soon turned to shrieks of terror as the kobolds realised that they were now in the presence of a deranged Rashemi berserker who was wholly intent on cutting them down like wheat before the scythe. They began fleeing back in the direction they had come, but Minsc charged after them, screaming and bellowing like a man possessed. He stopped but once, looking back at his companions and silently admonishing them for not following him as he left a trail of bloody, dismembered kobolds in his wake.

Talvi glanced at Dynaheir. "Is this predilection for violence common in your land?"

She did not speak immediately, and her answer was a cryptic "A wolf will always be a wolf."

At last the sounds of battle faded, and Minsc emerged from the black depths holding a sword drenched and blood and wearing a demented smirk on his face.

"The cowardly kobolds have fled back into their holes! Onwards, friends! Glory awaits, right Boo?"

The hamster squeaked in the affirmative, or at least what Talvi _thought_ was an affirmative, and once more she found herself tiptoeing between the mangled bodies of Minsc's victims, holding up the hem of her robe so that she wouldn't get blood on it.

A steady breeze of warm air emanated from the passage ahead, and Talvi could make out a faint reddish glow somewhere off in the distance. She felt as if they were miles underground at this point, though thinking rationally she knew this was not the case. Still, she could not help but wonder how close these tunnels came to the Underdark, a realm that was, for surfacing-dwelling elves, the very worst place imaginable short of the Abyss.

The passageway widened rather suddenly, and she saw the reason for the sudden increase in warmth. Before them lay a deep chasm, spanning about fifty feet by Talvi's estimation, which was passable only by a narrow bridge without kerb or rail. Carefully moving towards the edge, she saw to her horror that the bottom of chasm was a river of lava, sending up waves of heat that were so intense she had to step back.

"My word!" she exclaimed. "These poor fools have burrowed into an active volcano! Should it erupt, the entire village of Nashkel will be obliterated!"

Imoen nonchalantly looked over the edge, then tossed a few rocks into chasm. "Wow."

Talvi started across the bridge, then stopped when she felt something hard underneath her right foot. She looked down to see a small glass vial on the ground, which looked to have been dropped by one of the kobolds as they had fled.

The vial was stopped with a cork and contained a pale yellow liquid. Alchemy was not her areas of expertise, but something told her that this wasn't an ordinary potion. "Why would the kobolds be carrying this?" she wondered aloud.

On a hunch, she pried a dagger from the cold, dead hands of one of the kobolds, then removed the cork stopper from the vial. While her companions observed, she poured the liquid over the blade of the dagger.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. But a few seconds later, the metal began to turn the same shade of yellow as the liquid. "So this is the source of the iron plague," Jaheira remarked. "But I doubt the kobolds planned this.

Imoen was growing impatient. "Come on, everyone! Let's go cross the bridge of death!"

They followed her over the narrow walkway, each of them making sure not to make the mistake of looking over the edge. The bridge did not look like a natural formation, Talvi thought, but it didn't look like the sort of thing the miners would create, either.

On the opposite end of the bridge the passage branched out into three distinct corridors, each one shrouded in total darkness. They not gone more than a dozen feet or so before they were surrounded by blackness, and it was only then that they realised that someone ought to have brought a light source of some kind.

Worse, there was the sound of something moving in the tunnels; a steady _tick-tick-tick_ -ing that was most surely not made by a kobold.

Though she couldn't see in the darkness, Talvi knew that Khalid's face had just gone pale. "W-w-what was that?" he whimpered.

Imoen slapped Talvi's shoulder. "Hey, don't you have any spells to make light or something?"

"One moment...magic must not be rushed." She spoke the arcane incantation, channelling the forces of the Weave through her hands, and a few seconds later the tunnels were illuminated by a shining wisp of light that hovered above Talvi's head. "There," she said, "I do not think anything shall take us by surprise now."

She turned around to look at Khalid, and froze in terror.

"W-w-why are you looking at me l-l-like that?" he mewled.

"Khalid," she said calmly, "I do not wish to alarm you, but there is a very large spider standing right behind you."

He let out a piercing shriek, then bolted forward like a startled rabbit, cowering behind his wife. Talvi could not imagine a more hideous creature than the arachnid before her – a disgusting, eight-legged monstrosity covered in a dark, chitinous hide and bearing a set of bulging black eyes that were staring straight at her. It emitted a sharp hissing sound before moving towards her, its venomous fangs glinting in the light.

"Back with you!" she cried, summoning up all the arcane energy she could must in the hopes of burning this loathsome creature to ash.

Imoen reached out and stopped her. "Wait! He's not going to hurt you!"

" _What?_ Are you mad?"

"I think he just wants to be your friend."

Talvi looked back at Jaheira, wondering if there were any truth to Imoen's words. But she remained expressionless, more concerned with her husband taking cover behind her.

"Aw, I'll bet he's lonely," said Imoen,"spending all his time down here in the dark, with nothing to do except eat kobolds..."

The spider tilted its head to the side, then began walking backwards. "I think it wants us to follow," Jaheira said, sounding surprisingly calm about things.

Talvi baulked at her suggestion. "To lead us into its web and devour us, no doubt! These creatures are the servants of Lolth, the enemy of the Seldarine."

Jaheira frowned. "That is not always true. This species of spider does not seek warm-blooded prey, and we have nothing to fear from it, so long as it does not perceive us as a threat."

"Even if that's true, what reason do we have for following it?"

"I am wise to the ways of nature's children," was her frustrating non-answer.

Imoen already had her heart set on following the repulsive creature, and with a despairing sigh Talvi decided to go along with her.

* * *

Emerson let out a loud curse as his flagon fell to the floor, minus the handle. The metal fasteners had simply given way, and his forthcoming drunken stupor was now little more than a hissing puddle. The iron plague showed no mercy, it seemed. For one brief instant he reflected on the irony – if he had caught any of the miners drinking when they were supposed to be working, he would have sacked them on the spot.

A pile of letters sat atop his desk, all from angry individuals who were foaming at the mouth in rage at the useless iron ore his miners were digging up. Confident that there was nothing he could to assuage their wrath, and that whatever was happening in the mines was beyond his control, Emerson grabbed the stack of letters and promptly dropped them into the fireplace, watching with a certain sense of satisfaction as the pages curled up and shrivelled in the flames.

As he always did whenever he was unhappy, Emerson reflected on the series of bad decisions that had led him to this place. He had been led to believe by a rather unscrupulous merchant that Amn was the place to go if one wanted to make a fortune, as the land possessed both a frighteningly-wealthy ruling class and a docile, compliant workforce. Perhaps that was true, but what the charlatan hadn't told him was that the people of Amn, or at least the people of Nashkel, were a bunch of pig-ignorant hicks and yokels who couldn't locate their posteriors with both hands.

Just as he was about to locate another source of ale, the door to the mining office swung open, followed by a handful of the dirty, smelly miners Emerson had long since grown to detest. They were joined a few seconds later by more miners, who continued to file into the office until it was nearly bursting at the seams. They were still holding their shovels and pickaxes, and they looked prepared to use them to inflict a substantial degree of violence upon his person.

"What's the meaning of this?" Emerson snarled. He reached for his dagger, until he remembered that it too had fallen apart as a result of the bad iron.

"We're walking off the job," one of the miners said, speaking in the slovenly accent so depressingly common in this part of Faerûn. "It ain't safe down there, and this job ain't worth dying for!"

"And the ore we dig is no good anyhow," another added. "No point in going back to work until all that gets sorted out, is there?"

He glared hatefully at the mob, wishing they'd all drop dead. Whatever pathetic amount of gold this mine brought in wasn't worth this. "Listen, you filthy ingrates. You know those roofs over your heads, that food on your plates? Well, you'd better say goodbye to all that if you don't get back to work!"

Several of the miners crossed their arms in defiance. "You can't fire all of us."

"Yeah, you're going to have to deal with _all_ of us now," said another, "because we're forming..."

Emerson tensed up in terror, fearing the words that were about to come, the words that struck fear into the hearts of all profiteering individuals throughout the Realms.

"...a _trade union!_ "

A fearful yelp barely escaped his throat. What this imbeciles were proposing was nothing short of an abomination. "Blasphemy!"

"One of us is the same as all of us!"

"A fair day's wage for a fair day's work!"

"Nothing about us without us!"

There was only one door leading into the office, meaning the miners had cut off Emerson's only route of escape. If this mob turned fierce, he was as good as done for.

"What do you want?" he said, his bravado fading rapidly.

"We demand a threefold raise in our pay," said one miner.

"And no more unsafe working conditions!" said another.

"And we ought to have a least two tendays off during the year!" said a third.

Emerson slammed his hands down on the table. "Ridiculous! Who put these absurd notions in your head?" His mind worked frantically trying to come up with the answer before he remembered the adventuring party that had gone into the mine earlier. "It...it was that elf, wasn't it? I should have known. Elves are the laziest race in Faerûn."

"We aren't going back to work until you meet our demands."

Despite his loathing for the miners, he had to admit that there was nothing he could do about his present situation. "Look, you people want to run this mine? Fine, it's yours! Just don't blame me when the whole thing goes up in flames!"

With a disgusted snort Emerson pushed his way past the miners and darted out the door, heading straight for the _Belching Dragon_ tavern.


	8. Aerie Faerie

Chapter 8 – Aerie Faerie

* * *

Talvi trailed the group as they followed the spider deeper into the Nashkel mines, unwilling to get too close to the creature despite Jaheira's reassurances. Imoen, on the other hand, was blithely talking with the arachnid, regaling it with grossly exaggerated tales of their adventures and her magical abilities. Khalid continued to appear thoroughly traumatised, mumbling incoherently to himself while his wife urged him forward.

Yet Talvi was grateful for its guidance, for the passages of the mines was labyrinth and confusing, especially to her elven mind. If she had been born a dwarf (as unpleasant as that was to imagine), she reckoned she would have been able to find her way whilst blindfolded, so long as she didn't succumb to the dwarven urge to guzzle ale or start digging furiously for gems and gold. She might also have been able to navigate this maze of passages if she were a drow, though the thought of that was so horrid she could not imagine it.

And not only was the spider a useful guide, it terrified whatever kobolds lurked nearby, sending them scurrying away into the darkness. Truly, their reputation for cowardice was well-founded.

A few minutes later she distinctly heard the sound of running water. The passageway suddenly opened up into a large cavern illuminated by torches, at which point the spider turned to face them, clacked its mandibles together as if to signify that it had brought them to their destination, and then skittered away back into the darkness whence it came.

The cavern floor was covered in several feet of water, with a narrow walkway leading to another cave, this one looking distinctly unnatural in its formation. No doubt the product of sorcery, Talvi figured, which gave her pause.

"I suspect that whoever is responsible for these calamities in the mines is lurking within that cave," she said. "And am I certain that he is a formidable foe. Therefore, we should approach quietly and-"

Minsc's eyes blazed. "What? Minsc does not step lightly! We must charge bravely on, so that our enemies quake in fear at our coming!"

Dynaheir moved to stop him. "Minsc, thou shouldst-"

She might as well have been speaking to the wind, because Minsc charged off towards the cave, bellowing loudly enough that everyone in the mines might have heard. The rest of the group had no choice but to follow him, every one of them beginning to wonder if the Rashemi ranger were not a liability.

The next few moments were all a blur, until Talvi found herself standing inside what she could only describe as a throne room, cordoned off from the rest of the cave by a heavy set of curtains. A large stone chair sat upon a dais, and laid out before it was a finely-woven carpet that looked to be of Calishite design, though it was quite filthy and bore the marks of the numerous dirty feet that had trodden upon it. A number of large silk cushions were scattered about, which, combined with the rest of the decor, made the room resemble someone's crude imitation of an opulent royal palace.

Seated upon the throne was the unmistakable figure of a grey-skinned half-orc, and he jumped to his feet the second he caught sight of the intruders. Talvi could scarcely imagine anyone more hideous and bestial, with his brutish, jutting jaw and protruding tusks. He carried a crude-looking mace in his hand, spattered with dried blood, and around his neck was the holy symbol of Cyric, standing as proof of his vileness.

The half-orc's speech was as ugly as he was. " _What?_ How did you get in here? It...it was Tazok who sent you wasn't it? By Cyric, not a scrap of iron leaves this mine untainted, and still I am to be killed?"

Sensing an opportunity to resolve this situation without fighting, Talvi stepped forward. "Um...yes! It was indeed Tazok who sent us! Reveal your treachery, and perhaps he will be merciful!"

His hand moved towards the handle of his mace. "Mercy? Ha! That word doesn't exist in Tazok's vocabulary! I will not beg before you or him!"

"Oh, but you're wrong! Tazok doesn't want you to _grovel._ He thinks you are weak and spineless, and so he desires proof of your strength."

The half-orc stiffened his back, looking puzzled. "And what sort 'proof' does he want?"

"It is quite simple. Tazok wishes you to stand before him like a man, and speak to him the most vulgar, most heinous insult you can devise, followed by an insinuation that his mother is peddling herself for coin on the streets of Calimport. If you have the courage to do this, then Tazok might forgive your incompetence!"

He thought it over for a few seconds. "And if I do this, he will not nail my body to the walls of his tent and leave it as a feast for the crows?"

Talvi put her hands to her hips. "Well, it would hardly be a test of your courage if that were not possibility, would it? Certain death at our hands, or possible death at Tazok's hands. Make your choice."

"Very well, elf," the half-orc grumbled. "But should I die, my spirit will return to haunt you evermore!"

The group parted to allow him past, and Talvi glanced at Minsc with a great deal of self-satisfaction. "You see, Minsc, it is possible to get what you want _without_ resorting to senseless violence."

He looked puzzled at her words, as if she just said that the sky was purple, that up was down, and that black was white.

Near the half-orc's throne was a large chest, crudely banded with iron straps. Out of curiosity, Talvi approached the chest and lifted the lid.

"Hey, let me have a look," Imoen said.

She pushed Talvi aside and began rummaging through the chest's contents. She pulled out a small leather pouch which was filled with gold coins, judging by the sound it made when Imoen gave it a shake. A few seconds later she discovered a short sword that, at least in her eyes, was clearly superior to the one she was carrying.

"There's a book and some scrolls in here. You'll probably want to read em' or something." She shoved a dirty, waterlogged book and some dusty scrolls into Talvi's hands, who immediately recognised the scrolls as being of arcane nature.

"I wonder where he obtained them? I doubt very much a half-orc would know anything of the Art."

Amongst the magical scrolls she discovered a letter, written in a barbarous hand and nearly impossible to read:

_Mulahey,_

_Your stupidity knows no bounds. I've gotten word that "something" is killing people in the Nashkel Mines – how inept can you be to allow the kobolds to slaughter the miners? Now that your presence has been revealed, be on guard for any mercenaries sent to stop your operations. Your task is a simple one; continue to show that you cannot do your job and you will be replaced._

_And by "replaced" I mean "I will rip off your head and feed your carcass to the pigs, who will then proceed to poop little bits of you out, which I will then use as fertiliser for an orchard that I will use to make a barrel of very strong cider which I will DRINK OUT OF YOUR SKULL!"_

_If any further problems arise, send a message to my contact in Beregost. His name is Tranzig, and he will be staying at Feldepost's Inn._

_\- Tazok_

"Ah-ha!" Talvi exclaimed. "We must head back to Beregost. This half-orc has a contact at the Feldepost Inn by the name of 'Tranzig'. I am sure he will be able to shed some light on whatever pernicious skulduggery these knaves are up to!"

Fortunately for them (and especially for Khalid, who looked as though he were seconds away from fainting), they did not have to backtrack their way through the mines. Instead, they located a narrow passageway that led directly to the surface, which looked to have been carved out quite recently, no doubt so that Mulahey could come and go without arousing suspicion. Talvi could not say where on the surface, exactly, the passage had taken them, but it was a very dry and desolate sort of place, and quite unpleasant in her eyes. She dearly hoped she never ventured further south than this; she could only imagine how inhospitable those lands must be.

So concerned was she with getting back to civilisation that she did not notice the four women suddenly spring forth from behind an outcropping of rock.

"You there!" one of them cried. "Are you Talvi Korpela? Answer quickly and without falsehood, for your life depends upon it!"

Whoever these women were, they looked dirty and mean, and they quite clearly had murder on their minds. Perhaps it was a compliment, Talvi figured, that whoever was opposing her had sent four people to kill her, instead of just one.

"No, I believe you have me mistaken for someone else," she said calmly, taking note of her opposition. "We are the Silverymoon Acting Troupe, hired by the master of the mines to raise worker morale in the wake of recent events. And I must say, they were a most thoroughly unappreciative audience! Not that I expected much from uneducated yokels, of course, but I have scarcely seen a more unreceptive crowd since we performed at a monastery of the Order of the Long Death. A more miserable collection of dullards you have never seen! I can only assume that 'Long Death' means death from the sheer boredom that results if you are so unfortunate as to engage one of the monks in conversation-"

"Shut up!" snapped one of the women. "Did you think you could lie to us? My god, Cyric, sees through your deception! Now you shall die, and your interference with the Iron Throne will end!"

_The Iron Throne? How are they involved in this?_ Talvi thought. "Cyric? You _are_ aware that he is the lord of lies and deception, correct? Have you considered the possibility that he might be _lying_ to you?"

She stiffened her posture, a confused look coming over her face. "Um...well...why would he do such a thing?"

Talvi shrugged. "For his curiosity or amusement, perhaps. The minds of gods are ever ineffable and recondite. I suggest you return to your place of worship and meditate upon the divine mysteries of your patron; it is quite clear to me that the pattern of your life is eminently lacking in proper geometry and theology."

"Perhaps...perhaps you are right. The Prince of Lies has a habit of misleading his followers, and I believe this may one of the Black Sun's tests." She turned to her companions. "All right, we're leaving. Whatever we were paid is not enough to risk the wrath of Cyric."

And with that they marched away, while Talvi led the others in the opposite direction should the four women suddenly come to their senses.

"'Tis most disturbing," Dynaheir remarked, "how thou canst bend others to thy will."

"More troubling is that they let slip that the Iron Throne is somehow involved in all this."

Imoen stopped. "The 'Iron Throne'? What's that?"

"A thoroughly unscrupulous – as if there is any other kind – mercantile organisation in Baldur's Gate. We can only surmise that they have sabotaged the Nashkel mines as part of some scheme to eliminate their competitors and increase their profits."

"Does that mean we're gonna be going to Baldur's Gate?" Imoen said excitedly.

Talvi sighed. "I most certainly hope not!"

"Why? I bet there's lot of fun stuff to do in Baldur's Gate!"

"Believe me when I say that I have heard scarcely one good thing about that city. It is famous for its gamblers, prostitutes, cut-throats, vagabonds, frauds, hustlers, degenerates, and exceedingly pushy mendicants. I have even heard that there is a temple to Ilmater there; the veneration of that god is surely at the root of human intellectual and cultural stagnation."

Jaheira cleared her throat, suggesting to them that they set aside their discussion for another time.

* * *

It was late in the evening when they returned to Nashkel, and while Talvi wanted nothing more than to find a nice warm bed somewhere, Imoen's eyes were fixed on the collection of circus tents that had been set up to the east of the village.

"Oh wow, the fair's on!" she exclaimed. "C'mon, Talvi! Let's go play some games!"

"I don't think that-"

"Aw, don't be a fiddle-faddle! It'll be fun!"

Jaheira was quite eager to get rid of the two of them for a while. "I will speak to the mayor about the mines; you two go and see the fair, if you wish."

"Gee, thanks Aunty Jaheira!" she chirped before grabbing Talvi's arm and dragging her off towards the tents.

"I do hope you are not planning on playing any games of chance," she said, struggling to keep up, "or any other form of entertainment contrived to separate you from your coins as quickly as possible."

The fairground was quite small, as was befitting a village of Nashkel's size, and despite the festivities Talvi could not help but sense a sombre atmosphere hanging over the place. To the west was a hastily-assembled grandstand where a group of thespians were attempting to perform some play or another, while to the north was a cluster of tents and merchants stalls where peddlers were shamelessly flogging all manner of cheap trinkets and baubles.

In the midst of all this was a large wooden placard, indicating the events of the day:

_3:00 P.M. - Koreg Blunderhafen & The Ten Town Boys – Icewind Dale's finest bluegrass band!_

_4:00 P.M. -_ _Joranna Heaving-Bosom recites "That's Not An Ocarina, But Don't Stop Playing" (Adults only)_

_4:30_ _P.M._ _: The Great Gazib and The Amazing Exploding Ogre (Note: Those watching in the first few rows will get wet)_

_5:00_ _P.M._ _: Intermission_

_6:00_ _P.M._ _: The Riatavin_ _Acting Troupe performs "Aluve', Ussta Ssindossa!" in drowface. (CANCELLED DUE TO COMPLAINTS)_

_7:00 P.M.: Nashkel's 35_ _th_ _Annual Dwarf Tossing Extravaganza! (CANCELLED DUE TO COMPLAINTS AND LACK OF DWARVES)_

_8:00 P.M.: Ale drinking contest (No elves allowed)  
_

Imoen was positively bouncing on her feet. "I wanna see the exploding ogre!"

"Come now, Imoen, surely after your years at Candlekeep you no longer have any taste for such puerile forms of entertainment. This list of events only confirms my belief that Nashkel is an intellectual and cultural backwater, though this bluegrass band from Icewind Dale may be of some worth if-"

Before she could finish she was interrupted by a loud, nasally, and extremely irritating voice.

"You there! You _dare_ show your face at my circus after all these years?"

Talvi turned to see a red-faced gnome storming towards her. He sported a pair of spectacles and a long white beard, the combined effect creating what Talvi supposed was an attempt at seeming wise and learned, though his success in this endeavour was debatable. Combined with his short stature, Talvi was reminded of a large and not particularly adroit owl.

Following behind him was a young elven woman, dressed in robes of white and gold. With her pale yellow hair and large blue eyes she was quite beautiful, though she possessed a very slender physique, even for an elf. Talvi could not help but notice how startlingly similar this woman's appearance was to her own, and for that reason she immediately assumed that they must be related to each other.

For brief instant she turned her eyes back to the contemptible gnome. "I'm afraid you have mistaken me for someone else."

"Bah! I'm far too smart for your imbecilic attempts at misdirection! After all these years, did you think you can just come into my circus and heckle my performers without me knowing?"

"I do not care much for your tone, gnome. I assure you I am not the one you seek."

The elven woman spoke, sounding so nervous she made Khalid look lionhearted. "Uncle Quayle, I…I don't think she's the one you're looking for..."

A glint of realisation slowly crept into his eyes. "But she has her hideous face, and wears that same damnable pendant she did!" He turned back to Talvi. "What's your name, elf?"

"If you _must_ know, I am Talvi Korpela, arcane scho-"

The gnome fumed. "Korpela! That was her name! The one who followed me up and down the length of the Sword Coast for no other reason than to torment me!"

"You are obviously speaking of my mother, then," she replied, crossing her arms. "Obviously she had a good reason for doing what she did."

The gnome stamped his foot. "No, she didn't! She first showed up in Berdusk, where she did nothing but criticise my performers' rendition of the Evereskan Sword Dance, saying that it was 'wrong' because the performers were human!"

Talvi frowned. "Of course it was 'wrong'! Humans lack the necessary dexterity to perform such a demanding routine as the Evereskan Sword Dance."

This served only to agitate the gnome further. "You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about. That woman had no _conception_ of the level of intellect she was dealing with! _Me_ , the great Quayle, whose intelligence and insight rivals that of Elminster! Who was she to criticise my circus? And yet there she was, in every city and village I travelled to, doing nothing except heckling and barracking every event! You elves are all the same! Arrogant, blustering, erroneously convinced of their own intelligence-"

The young elven woman looked positively mortified. "Uncle Quayle, p-p-please don't say such things..."

"Well, I didn't mean _you,_ Aerie..."

"How are you an 'uncle' to an elf?" Talvi asked, tapping her foot.

"That's none of your business!" he snapped. "And don't you speak to her, either; she's very fragile and cries a lot."

"I...I do not!" Aerie protested.

"Yes you do, dear. Now, what was I talking about? Oh, right, my amazing brain and why anyone who says anything bad about my circus is an idiot. Do you know how much effort I put into getting good performers for the stage? Only someone with my phenomenal brainpower could manage it."

"I would like to see your 'performances,' gnome, to see if they truly live up to your blustering."

"Well you can't! From this moment forth, you are banned for life from Quayle's Circus! Now get going! I swear, I feel I'm dumber for even having talked with you!"

Talvi and Imoen walked away, both feeling rather nonplussed. "What a strange creature that gnome was! I am certain that 'twas my mother who 'heckled' his performances, as he put it, but I can only assume she was fully justified in her critiquing. But more importantly, what do you think of that elven woman he has adopted?"

"She looked real sad. I just wanted to hug her."

"Yes, well, I doubt very much that gnome is capable of raising her properly. I also could not help but feel as though I were gazing into a mirror when I saw her; do you think it is possible she is some relative of mine?"

Imoen shrugged. "Maybe, dunno. I don't think the Realms could handle two of you."

Talvi froze. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Nothin', really. C'mon, let's go see what's in some of these tents! I'll be there's people selling all kinds of great things inside!"

* * *

"I'm here because there seems to be some very serious problems with the Academy."

Alerio growled in frustration before taking a large bite out of a loaf of bread.. "With all due respect, Sir Nevalle, I hardly think this is an issue worthy of Lord Nasher's attention. Despite the gruesomeness of the...incident...in Jaroo's laboratory, and despite the fact that several students' bodies were violently... _rearranged_...I can assure you that this was nothing more than a freak accident, and-"

Nevalle raised his hand, interrupting the headmaster. "That is not what concerns Lord Nasher. No, what concerns him is that he has recently learned that one of your students, a woman named Qara, has made threats against the great library of Candlekeep. And the letter informing us of these threats came from none other than Drizzt Do'Urden himself."

Alerio let his mouth hang open, causing several bits of partially-chewed bread to fall onto his lap. "Since when did Drizzt get involved with Candlekeep? How do you know this letter is even from him, and not some forgery?"

"I don't, but I've asked some of the other instructors at the Academy about this Qara, and from what I've learned, this is exactly the sort of thing she'd be involved in. What's more, I've also discovered that she is a _sorceress!_ So what in the Nine Hells is she doing in a school for _wizards?_ "

"Let me get one thing straight with you," said Alerio, setting the half-eaten loaf back down on his desk. "I would like nothing more than to see that stupid wench expelled from the Neverwinter Academy. But I can't."

Sir Nevalle frowned. "Why not? You _are_ the headmaster, are you not?"

"Yes, but..." He lowered his voice. "That woman's father is none other than the author of _A Song of Blood and Thunder,_ and he's made it clear that if I do anything to jeopardise his daughter's standing in this institution, he will kill off my favourite character in his next book!"

" _That's_ your reason?"

"Look, Ser Durak is the only character in _A Song of Blood and Thunder_ that transcends the dismal society in which he is forced to function. He is also quite morally rigid, something which I find extremely appealing."

"Headmaster Alerio, the characters in those novels have the lifespan of an asthmatic flea. I'm sure Ser Durak will be killed off in the next instalment no matter what you do."

Alerio opened one of the desk drawers and retrieved a fiasco of wine. "Well I'm not willing to take that risk. You can try talking to Qara yourself, but I must warn you – you'll probably want to kill her the second she starts flapping her jaw." He popped the cork from the bottle and took a swig.

"Well, headmaster, if you are going to be stubborn, then perhaps there is another matter you can look into for us." Sir Nevalle continued. "An 'iron plague' is afflicting the city of Baldur's Gate and the surrounding-"

The mention of that city stirred up such profound loathing in Alerio's breast that he spat out the wine in his mouth, which spattered all over Sir Nevalle's blue cloak, leaving the Neverwinter eye looking as though it were suffering from a bad case of conjunctivitis. " _Baldur's Gate?_ Do not mention that foul city in my presence!"

"And what, if I may ask, is your grievance with Baldur's Gate?" Nevalle asked with a scowl, trying in vain to wipe the wine off his clothes.

"That city," he began, pointing his finger accusingly, "is inhabited by...is rife with... _infested_ with...with…!"

"With what?"

" _Bards!_ " he cried, loudly enough that everyone down the hall might have heard him. "Slimy, philandering, lecherous, perfidious, degenerate _bards!_ Let me tell you something, Sir Nevalle, and I hope you take it back to Lord Nasher: there only thing worse than Luskans are those miserable wretches who slither from tavern to filthy tavern, assailing the patrons' ears with their travesties of music and telling revoltingly-exaggerated tales in the hopes of luring some hapless young maid into bed! Those debauched blackguards care for nothing but coin and cleavage, and they ought to go back to their whoremongering and leave the art of song to people who know a thing or two. So if something terrible is happening to Baldur's Gate, then I'm sure they deserve it."

By now Sir Nevalle was close to losing his patience. "Plagues have a tendency to spread, headmaster, and Lord Nasher does not want this 'iron crisis' to spread northward. He will be sending you a sample of the contaminated metal, and he expects the Academy to create an antidote."

Alerio sighed. "Very well, but let Lord Nasher know that I expect to be paid in wine."

Sir Nevalle left without another word, much to Alerio's relief. That a calamity had befallen Baldur's Gate was enough to brighten his entire day – perhaps even the next whole tenday – and his only thought was how he could make this 'iron plague' last longer. It would not be difficult, as the Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate – truly ridiculous titles, since there was nothing grand and certainly nothing ducal about them – would likely believe anything he told them given his station...

* * *

The cold night air blew in Sarevok's face as he looked over the city from his balcony, his disdain growing with every breath he took. What a truly worthless place it was, with its pathetic inhabitants crawling over it like maggots on a corpse. Running about their daily business, did they think their lives mattered for anything? They worked hard, provided for themselves and their families, lived as they thought they should, but in the end they were all powerless before death.

Death that _he_ would soon be bringing to their doorsteps.

Some attempted to stave off death with spells and potions, others by seeking lichdom or some other form of undeath. Some tried to carve out legacies that would echo through the ages, though even the greatest individuals would be forgotten in time. But to become a _god_ , well, what better form of eternal life was there?

The fact that even gods could die was not something Sarevok wished to dwell on.

He heard footsteps behind him, and without turning around he could tell who it was. "You return. What have you learned of the temple?"

"I am quite sure it would meet with your hearty approval," Winski answered. "The interior and exterior are adorned with skulls and spikes, and there are no pews or other forms of seating, so worshippers will have to sit on the hard stone floor. This will no doubt make them _very_ uncomfortable and give them terrible back pain for the next few days."

"Are you _mocking_ me?" Sarevok growled. Winski was one of the few people who refused to show any fear in his presence. In a way it was irritating, but he could respect the man for it. "No matter. That a temple of Bhaal lies beneath this city is proof enough of my destiny."

"For someone so assured of his 'destiny', you seem remarkably obsessed with potential threats to it. Your foolish fixation on Gorion's ward, for instance."

He turned to face him. "The bounty hunters Tamoko hired were weak and incompetent. I will not make the same mistake."

Winski frowned. "And what possible threat could this _girl_ pose to you? She is an elf, Sarevok, one that is barely twenty years of age. While she may look fully-grown, in spirit she is only a child – a child that has spent all her life in a _library!_ "

"Do _not_ question me on this, old man! Gorion's ward is a sapling, one that might grow into a mighty oak whose roots could crack the foundation of even the mightiest fortress. We must... _uproot..._ her before this happens."

"And if you had not threatened her, she would never have left Candlekeep and she would have remained ignorant of our plans. Knowing when _not_ to act is just as important as knowing when _to_ act. Obviously this is a lesson you have yet to learn."

"Gorion was a Harper, and I am sure he was grooming his ward to join their order. They would have surely learned of her heritage, if they are not already aware, and would have turned her powers against us. Is that what you want – a child of Bhaal amongst the Harpers?"

"And if Gorion's ward should prevail against your assassins, what then? By striving against her, by forcing hardships upon her, you make her into a greater foe." Winski walked to the balcony railing and gazed out over the endless rows of buildings. "Do you know why the people of this city are weak? It is because they have gone their whole lives without being truly tested. They have never reaped the reward of a struggle waged on one's own, and so they have become slothful and indolent. They have clerics to heal their wounds, cure their diseases, and even raise them from their dead should they meet an untimely end. They have have guards and watchmen to protect them, magistrates to pass judgement for them, and hangman to take the lives of those who wrong them. Everything is done for them, so they can do nothing for themselves. There is a reason why the drow have dispensed with pity and compassion, for they know that by aiding others, they breed in weakness."

"And," Sarevok added with a low laugh, "if everyone is kept at each other's throats, they will be no threat to those in power."

Winski smiled. "Ah, now are you learning. It is good to see that at least some of my teachings make it through that thick head of yours-"

"Careful, old man, or I might have to kill you for your insolence."

"Yet you still have much to learn. Mindless slaughter, which you seem all too eager to indulge in, will only work against our interests. That man you threw off the roof the other day – what did that get us except a great deal of unwanted attention from the Flaming Fist?"

"He annoyed me."

"If you kill everyone who looks at you the wrong way, Sarevok, then Baldur's Gate won't have any people left for the Amnians to kill!"

"Then I will simply have to find to somewhere else to engage in my father's holy work. There is a group of druids who make their home in Cloakwood, and I feel that the earth must be fed with their blood. Or failing that, I shall have my vengeance upon the halfling village of Gullykin."

Winski furrowed his brow. "You will do no such thing. Furthermore, I would suggest you stop wearing that infernal armour of yours unless you expect to face battle. If you are to be a Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate, then the people will expect you to be respectable and dignified, and you will _not_ convey that impression wearing a breastplate inscribed with the symbol of the _Lord of Murder!_ "

"I tire of your upbraiding. If you wish to remain useful to me, then find someone who will rid me of Gorion's ward, and pray that they are more successful than the fools Tamoko hired."

"Damn you!" Winski snarled. "Your... _preoccupation_...with that girl will be your undoing, Sarevok! This matter will resolve itself, so long as you let it be!"

Rage boiled within his heart, and he had to force himself not to hurl his "mentor" from the balcony right then and there. "And why should I let her live? Talvi Korpela has spent her entire life in comfort and ease, yet what has she done to earn that life? What struggles has she overcome? What strength has she shown? None at all! Fate has blessed her with everything, yet what did it spare for me? Nothing but the streets of Baldur's Gate, where I had to fight tooth and claw for every coin, every scrap of food! So when I spit her upon my blade, it is not 'mindless slaughter', but rather a correction of fate's mistake."

His sudden outburst surprised him. He had always considered his miserable upbringing to be a gift that had brought him strength, but now Sarevok felt only bitter envy.

"I see your heart is set on this course, then. Very well, there is nothing I can do to dissuade you, but remember my words. Of course, you being you, I doubt very much that you will."


	9. Old Stinkbeard

Chapter 9 – Old Stinkbeard

* * *

When Khalid and Jaheira returned from speaking with the mayor of Nashkel, they brought with them the mayor's reward – a bag of gold containing more money than Talvi had ever seen in her life. Living in Candlekeep, she had no little use for coin, and staring at the bag of money in Jaheira's hand, she could not imagine what she might possibly spend it on. Books, perhaps, or maybe some magical items with a bottle of fine wine on the side. Imoen, on the other hand, had the impression that this money was going to be spent on getting new clothes for her.

Jaheira was quick to admonish them both. "It will be spent _only_ on what we need."

"Aww, you're no fun," Imoen pouted. "I need something that complements my new hair colour."

The group spent the night at the Nashkel Inn and, as was her wont, Talvi stayed up for some time after the others had gone to sleep, deep into one of her tomes. This particular tome was titled _Races of_ _Faerûn,_ written by one "Alerio Clunes," whom the opening pages identified as the headmaster of the Neverwinter Academy. The book itself was intended for adventurers, and it described the evil races that an adventurer might encounter on her travels:

_The Vampire_

_A sadistic predator that feeds on the blood of the living, vampires are amongst the most repulsive and loathsome of the undead. Devoid of conscience or virtue, they stalk the streets and public places at night, in a manner very much like that of a bard, with the aim of seducing their hapless victims into becoming one of them._

_It is interesting to note that the process of becoming a vampire affects men and women differently. The male vampire typically becomes a brooding, tiresome bore, endlessly prattling on about the "howling blackness in his dark, twisted soul" or some such rubbish. Under no circumstances should the adventurer allow such a creature to engage in him conversation. Not only is the male vampire a dangerous foe in its own right, his tedious lamentations about the pitiable state of his existence is so terribly dull that the typical adventurer will most likely do himself in just to get away from it. This is very much the same urging one feels when confronted with the tuneless wailing and artless blubbering of the average Faerûnian bard._

_The female vampire, on the other hand, will invariably transform herself into a brazen hussy, with a peculiar love of skin-tight leather outfits that reveal a scandalous amount of her undead flesh. They use their feminine wiles to ensnare their prey, who are often transformed into the vampire's thralls and minions, a behaviour that is very much like that of some slimy, libidinous bard. While there exist several orders of vampire hunters throughout Faerûn, there are, quite sadly, no such orders dedicated to cleansing the land of the foul taint of the bardic arts…_

It went on like this for some length.

Talvi skipped ahead a few pages.

_The Drow_

_Originally known as the Ilythiiri, the drow were banished to the Underdark by Corellon Larethian for their cruel and bloody ways. They had turned to the worship of Lolth, who turned out to be a spectacularly poor choice of deity, for the Spider Queen brought them nothing but misery and ruination._

_The drow value individual strength above all else. While this philosophy of "survival of the fittest" occasionally permits a powerful personage to come to the fore, it also prohibits the drow from accomplishing anything of note. Any collective endeavour will undoubtedly be ruined by the inevitable backstabbing and infighting so common amongst their race, and while the drow dream of conquering the surface world, it is truly a vain hope, for such an undertaking would require a strong leader with strong subjects. But having been raised to value nothing but their own ambition, these strong subjects will surely be looking to usurp, by any means necessary, the position of leadership. And since a strong leader is only strong because she has strong subjects, any attempt by the drow to subjugate the surface is doomed from the start. Truly, this is a level of stupidity verging on bard-like. There is a saying amongst the inhabitants of the Underdark, that a drow's worst enemy is his fellow drow, which wholly encapsulates the cretinous mindset that afflicts their race like a disease. Drizzt Do'Urden excepted, the only good drow is a dead drow, so why the forces of the surface world haven't gone and "improved" the whole lot of them is truly a vexing mystery.  
_

_And while drow wizards are widely feared for their magical might, in truth this is a gross exaggeration, much like how the typical bard grossly exaggerates his own musical affinity. Any drow who develops a new spell or uncovers a new area of magical research will surely keep his knowledge to himself. To him, everyone is a potential enemy, and why would he ever share his discoveries with his enemies? And when the knife inevitably finds its way into his back, his knowledge will die with him. Thus one can reasonably assume that arcane arts have largely stagnated amongst the drow, and that their wizards would surely find themselves hopelessly outclassed during any confrontation with mages of the surface._

_Though they are, on the whole, a people worthy of nothing but contempt, I have heard it said that drow bards who fail to please their patrons are tortured to death. Thus we can see how even a vile, degenerate race might possess some redeeming attributes..._

Finding nothing that she did not already know, Talvi skipped ahead once more.

_The Illithid_

_What more can be said about these vile mockeries of nature, commonly known as "mind flayers?" The illithid is vaguely humanoid in appearance, with a four-tentacled, octopus-like head. Possessing telepathic abilities of tremendous power, an illithid is quite capable of mentally dominating and enslaving their hapless victims (a situation that will be all too familiar for any man unfortunate enough to find himself in wedlock). Those they do not enslave will suffer a most horrid fate: the illithid stuns its prey with a powerful blast of psionic energy, and then proceeds to suck out its brains via their tentacles. Naturally, this process tends to be fatal, except in the case of bards, as they haven't got any brains to begin with._

_Adventurers should, under no circumstances, engage the illithid in combat unless they are supremely confident of their abilities. Should an adventuring party find themselves pursued by such a horror, it is recommended that they sacrifice one of their members (preferably one of the bardic disposition) so that the others might get away..._

Flipping back to the front page, Talvi found a list of other works by the author, all of which seemed to share the same general theme:

_Bards: Merrymakers or Menace?_

_The Seduction of the Innocent: How Travelling Minstrels Corrupt Our Morals and Degrade Our Society._

_None So Vile: How the Bardic Colleges Are Conspiring with the Host Tower of the Arcane to Destroy Neverwinter._

_When Your Child Is a Bard: Coping with_ _Y_ _ou_ _r_ _Failure as a Parent._

"I wonder what he has against bards?" she wondered aloud. "Perhaps one of them owed him money...?"

* * *

The weather was most agreeable when they set out for Beregost early the next morning, with a gentle breeze blowing from the west. Word was already beginning to spread of how their group had uncovered the sinister plot within the mines, and while this came as a great relief to the weary folk of Nashkel, many found themselves even more on edge than before. Someone had attempted to sabotage the livelihood of the entire town, and rumours were flying as to who was responsible. Some speculated that the city of Baldur's Gate was behind it, as part of a prelude to an invasion, while others insisted that the Zhentarim had masterminded the entire operation. A small number laid the blame on the halfling village of Gullykin; the individual who had brought forth his accusation cited no evidence other than the fact that he "just didn't like those halfling bastards."

They did not have to go far before Jaheira started nagging Talvi about something. "May I ask why you insist on wearing that wreath on your head, child? It hardly seems practical for travelling."

"It was a gift from a cleric of Sune," she said, rather irritated at Jaheira's tone. "And don't call me 'child'! I am _not_ a child!"

"Is that so? Tell me, how long does a member of the elven race live?"

"Seven or eight centuries, sometimes more."

"And how old are you?"

"I passed my twentieth year of life three months ago and-" She stopped, realising she had fallen right into Jaheira's trap.

"Ha!" Imoen cried. "She's got ya' there, Talvi!"

"No she doesn't! Elves grow at the same pace as humans. You know that."

She ignored her protest. "That means you're like a little girl compared to me! Maybe _I_ should be the one teaching you!"

"Speaking of that," Talvi said, eager to change the subject, "I do hope you've been making an effort to keep up with readings before you go to sleep each night. You cannot allow your intellectual faculties to atrophy now that we are separated from the nourishing mother of Candlekeep. I suggest you focus on theological works; I believe your larcenous tendencies are a result of your life's lack of a spiritual dimension."

"Why do you gotta keep bringing that up? So I like stealin' stuff! What's wrong with that?"

"It makes people rather cross, for one thing. I suspect many would attempt to murder you, should they learn of your theft."

"Boo agrees," Minsc added. "It's not nice to steal!"

"But what if I only steal from _bad_ people?"

"Then you will need the wisdom to discern good and evil, hence the need for proper theology in your life. I suggest the worship of Sune. She is the most agreeable deity outside of the Seldarine and quite forgiving of minor transgressions."

"I dunno, that cleric who gave you that wreath...he said I had big puffy head."

"I'm sure he meant it as a compliment."

"I don't have a big puffy head, do I, Talvi?"

"No, you do not have a 'big puffy head'."

This did not appear to satisfy her anxiety, and for the next few minutes Imoen kept running her hands over head, trying to determine if it really were as large as the cleric had said it was.

It was late in the afternoon when they finally arrived at Beregost, the town looking every bit as dreary and depressing as it had when they had first passed through. This time, however, Talvi's eyes were not on the dismal surroundings, but on the old man hurriedly making his way towards her.

Even the most dimwitted fool in the Realms could not fail to recognise him. With his crimson robes, pointed hat, and long, white beard, there could be no mistaking Elminster Aumar, the Sage of Shadowdale, the Great Oversorcerer, the Doombringer of Mystra. Talvi recalled that he was the same old man who had spoken to her and Imoen shortly after their flight from Candlekeep, though she had not known his identity at the time.

"Ho there, wanderer! Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man."

Imoen spoke before Talvi could even open her mouth. "Hey, it's ol' Stinkbeard himself!"

"Good heavens!" Talvi exclaimed. "You can't speak that way to a man of his standing!"

Elminster raised his hand. "Ye have given me no offence," he assured her, "for this particular weed of mine surely hath an unruly reek. Alas, I have but a short while to speak with thee. I have heard tales of thy exploits in Nashkel, and I dare say that thou art destined to have quite the impact the impact upon the Sword Coast."

She was about to inquire as to how he had come by that knowledge, but there was no need to ask when dealing with such a powerful wizard. "I'm afraid this conspiracy goes far beyond Nashkel. I believe the Iron Throne is behind it, to what end, I know not, but I have no doubt that this plot of theirs is but a means to satisfy their grasping pecuniary ambitions."

Elminster exhaled a cloud of purplish (and thoroughly foul-smelling) smoke, the product of a smouldering herb that grew nowhere on this plane. "Would that I could help thee, but alas, my meddling bringeth oft more harm than good. I shall give thee my counsel, however; the bandits thou art seeking make a habit of travelling 'twixt Larswood and Peldvale. Now I must-"

Before he could finish, there was a tremendous flash of light and the unmistakable sensation one felt when in close proximity to a magical disturbance. When the light subsided, Talvi saw that seven individuals had surrounded them.

Until now, she had only seen their kind in books. They were tall and gaunt, with sickly yellow skin and beady black eyes. Their ears were pointed and elf-like, but there was nothing remotely beautiful about them.

They were githyanki, and everything Talvi had ever read about them suggested they were the worst sort of people imaginable.

One of them was wearing an ornate feathered headdress, no doubt signifying him as the leader of the group, and he carried a most unusual weapon. It was a sword, though the word hardly did justice to it, and in the light of the sun the surface of blade seemed to ebb and flow like liquid metal. The sheer beauty of the weapon stood in harsh contrast to the ugliness of its wielder.

The leader stepped towards Elminster "We meet at last, _d_ _umabartigartfash!_ Your cowardice is as brazen as your treachery!"

"What's the meaning of this?" said Talvi, looking at Elminster and then the githyanki. " _What_ did you just call him?"

His was voice was like that of a man who had spent most of his life gargling gravel and burning coals. "He is _d_ _umabartigartfash –_ 'man with stupid hat'! But his transgressions against good taste pale next to his other crimes, crimes so heinous they cannot be spoken of!"

The people of Beregost, sensing that no good wind was blowing, quickly retreated into their homes.

Elminster turned to Talvi. "Let me give thee this counsel, young one. When thou speakest with fanatics, be thou ever mindful of how easily thou canst give offence! Now, I suggest thou and thy companions do stand back, for things are about to get... _perilous._ "

They did as he bade them, while the leader of the githyanki continued ranting. "Enough words, _d_ _umabartigartfash!_ The Lich Queen demands your blood!"

Gripping tightly to his staff, Elminster stared at his opponent with a terrifying determination in his eyes. "If thou seekest blood," he said, "thou hast found it."

It happened so quickly Talvi had scarcely any time to follow what was going on. The seven githyanki charged towards Elminster, their blades raised high. Before they reached him, however, he breathed out a cloud of smoke – one far too voluminous to be contained in any man's lungs – which swiftly enveloped his attackers. For a few seconds there was no sound nor commotion from within the cloud, but when it lifted, only Elminster and the githyanki leader remained. What had happened to the other six was something Talvi would rather not speculate on.

Elminster looked at his foe with an expression of playful mockery. "Thou hast brought seven to fight one. Thy sense of fairness is...lacking."

"I am a knight of the Lich Queen! I wield a silver sword forged by her hand! Are you afraid, _d_ _umabartigartfash?_ You ought to be, for this knight shall soon be spilling your innards on the ground!"

"I eat githyanki knights for breakfast, and forsooth, thou dost stand before a man who is _very hungry._ "

Dynaheir gazed upon the spectacle with a mixture of bemusement and contempt. "I cannot believe the blustering stupidity of what I am seeing! This old man shall get himself killed!"

"I do not think so," Jaheira replied. "The githyanki lost this fight before they started."

The githyanki charged at the old wizard, swinging his blade in a broad arc. Elminster, looking completely at ease, raised his staff with one arm and casually blocked his enemy's blow. The githyanki pressed down on his sword, growling and snarling, desperately trying to break through Elminster's guard. But he held fast, and to Talvi's great surprise, fractures and fissures began appearing in the blade of the silver sword.

With a deafening metallic _crack,_ the blade shattered against Elminster's staff, sending razor-sharp fragments flying in all directions. Once he regained his wits, the unfortunate githyanki stared down at his sword – now reduced to a mere hilt – with the look of someone who had just witnessed the impossible.

Elminster, on the other hand, was positively triumphant. "Tellest thou thy Lich Queen, that the Sage of Shadowdale wanteth _knights_ , not knaves!"

With a wave of his hand, he made the githyanki vanish with a burst of light, having forced him back to the Astral Plane. Gazing at his handiwork with a look of smug satisfaction, Elminster wandered off without saying another word.

Imoen was absolutely star-struck. "Wow! We got to see ol' Stinkbeard fight someone! Bet you don't get to see _that_ every day!"

Talvi ignored her and walked over to the one of the shards of metal that were all that remained of the githyanki's silver sword. Implacably drawn to objects of an arcade nature, she picked up one of the shards, being careful not to cut herself on the impossibly-sharp edges.

"Wait!" cried Imoen. "You can't go taking those! I heard the githyanki will do anything to get their lost silver swords back! They'll chase you across the planes and everything!"

"Well I doubt very much they will desire this sword in its present state," she said as she gathered up the shards. "I am sure nothing bad will come of it. Now I suggest we find a comfortable inn for the night; thanks to our good friend Elminster, we did not have to thuggishly threaten some Iron Throne thrall for the location of these bandit blackguards, if the Iron Throne is indeed behind this 'iron plague'."

Imoen pointed to a nearby building from which the sounds of merriment emanated. A sign, depicting a smiling man in a fool's cap was placed before the entrance, indicating that the name of the establishment was _T_ _he Jovial Juggler._ "How about that one?"

"I suppose it will do."

Minsc opened to his mouth to speak, but Dynaheir got the first word in. "No, Minsc, thou shalt _not_ 'drink the place dry' this time! I do not wish to drag thy senseless body back to thy room."

Judging by the lack of change in his facial expression, Talvi had the impression that Minsc had no intention of listening to her. She also had the impression that Minsc passing out from drunkenness a regular occurrence.

The instant Talvi stepped inside the Jovial Juggler, her nose was assaulted with the scents of roasted meat, pipe smoke, and spiced ale. The inn was quite crowded at this hour, with the air filled with the mirthful din of drunken conversations. Yet there was one sound that broke through the clamorous cacophony – the sound of an angry dwarf. Angry dwarves were hardly an uncommon sight in Faerûn, but to Talvi's great displeasure, this particular dwarf was heading straight for her.

"By Moradin's hammer, is there no end to it all? Aye, everyone's heard of how ol' Gurke has had his cloak stolen off his back some tasloi, and now some sissy elf comes along to have a laugh at him!" He looked up Talvi with disgust in his eyes. "One crack out of you, knife-ears, and I'll send you running back to the bitch that bore you!"

Before Talvi could properly avenge the insult to her mother, the barkeep shouted out to the dwarf, "Oh shut up, you manky git! No one cares about your bloody cloak, and if you don't stop harassing my customers, I'll throw you out on your arse!"

"Don't do _that!_ " protested a very well-dressed (and slightly tipsy) young lady seated nearby. "This dwarf's fury is so endlessly delightful! Look at the way his beard quivers when he speaks! Have you ever seen something so amusing?"

He spun around to face her, his cheeks red with rage. "What's that you said about my beard? Mayhap you'd like to say that to me again?"

The young lady's companion waved his hand. "Everyone knows your threats are empty, Gurke. Those tasloi wouldn't have stolen your cloak if your brawn matched your bragging!"

Talvi stepped forward, her senses protesting against the dwarf's unrefined tone, his swaggering gait, and his unkempt beard that hung from his surly face in violation of all rules of beauty and goodness. "I suggest you restrain yourself dwarf, and apologise for your uncouth remark about my mother. I will not have you contributing to the social decrepitude of this town."

Khalid fidgeted nervously. "P-p-perhaps we should g-g-go somewhere else..."

"Bah!" Gurke snarled. "Go run around in the woods, elf or whatever it is your kind do!"

"Why can't we ever go to an inn without bein' hassled?" Imoen said, putting her hands to her hips.

Talvi didn't hear her, so consumed was she with righteous indignation. "You _dare_ impugn the elven custom of sylvan merriment? Barkeep, I demand you restrain this dwarf at once! The filthy little rock-eater must be lashed until he collapses!"

"You lost your cloak in Cloakwood, hey?" yelled one of the inn's patrons, sensing that there was great amusement to be had at Gurke's expense. "Appropriate place for that, ain't it?"

The instant he uttered that last word, Gurke drew a rusted morning star and charged towards his table. " _I WARNED YOU!_ I told you what would happen if you made that joke, aye I did, but did you listen? Now you're gonna pay the price! Have at you!"

Gurke brought his morning star down atop the table with such force that the piece of furniture snapped in two, sending the plates and cutlery sitting thereupon crashing to the floor. A tall, burly-looking man, evidently an employee of the inn, moved to apprehend the dwarf, but he could lay a hand on him, Gurke whipped his morning star around, smashing the man in the kneecaps. He fell to the floor screaming in pain, prompting several more individuals, all thoroughly distempered with drink, to upend their tables and throw themselves into the fray.

The barkeep called for order, but his voice was lost in the roar of the ensuing brawl. A paladin, clad in full plate armour from the neck down, attempted to intervene, only to have a chair broken over his head for his troubles. The young woman who had heckled the dwarf fended off an attacker by smashing a bottle over his head, while her companion was busy dragging a man by his collar along the top of the bar counter, sending cups and glasses flying in all directions. In the midst of it all, Gurke was wildly swinging his morning star at everyone in the vicinity, all the while letting out a stream of highly inflammatory vulgarities.

Jaheira shook her head at the mayhem the Jovial Juggler had been reduced to. "Perhaps we should seek lodging elsewhere."

The rest of the group agreed, and they quickly located another inn some distance to the west. "Feldepost's" was what the sign outside read, the same establishment that cited in the letters they had found in the Nashkel mines. Talvi pondered seeking out the contact the letters had mentioned and seeing what information they could pry out of him, but decided against it.

Feldepost's Inn was noticeably more subdued than the Jovial Juggler, and the exquisite décor suggested it was a good deal more refined. Whether the same could be said of the patrons was something else entirely, and no sooner had they stepped inside than they were accosted by a dirty, drunk, and thoroughly miserable soul who looked utterly offended by their very existence. His eyes were full of pain and anger, as though he had suffered some terrible loss, and he was insistent on taking out his wrath on a hapless band of adventurers who had made the mistake of walking into the inn at the wrong time.

"'Ere now, get out! I don't like your type in here!"

Talvi rolled her eyes, completely exasperated. "I don't believe this! Can a party of adventurers not find lodging in this town without being harassed by rubes and yokels?"

"' _Yokels_ '?" the indignant man thundered. "This here town is fer' decent, hard-workin' folk! Why do you get a real job instead of pokin' around places you ain't got no business being, stirrin' up things better left alone?"

Talvi could not conceal her disgust. " _Pfagh!_ To sing the praise of 'hard work' is the song of a bird that has learned to love its cage. I spied a temple of the Morninglord on my way into this town, a god devoted to vigour, vitality, hope, and self-perfection, and so far I have seen encountered nothing of the sort. You are apparently a faithless people." She turned to her companions. "Let us make camp in the woodlands, for Rillifane Rallathil's embrace is surely more welcoming than this dismal township!"

* * *

Drizzt forced his way onwards, not caring one whit for how exhausted he was. A man such as he did not survive long without being able to tell when trouble was brewing, and every sense in his body was telling Drizzt that something terrible was about to befall the Sword Coast. The incessant bandit raids, the trouble in the Nashkel mines, the 'iron plague', it all presaged some horrendous catastrophe that he was better off avoiding. His intervention would surely shift the course of events to one side or the other, as it always did, but he had to be ever mindful of overreaching himself.

He had always considered humility a necessary virtue for any true hero. But Drizzt laboured constantly under the terrible of burden of knowing that he was, quite simply, better than everyone at everything.

For a brief moment he thought back to that strange elven woman he had found bathing in the woods that one night. She had been young, barely more than a child, but for reasons unexplainable, Drizzt had an ill feeling about her, as though any continued association with her would be his undoing. He had never been able to understand surface elves; those that did not treat him with contempt often acted in ways that were mystifying and inscrutable.

He could not reach Icewind Dale soon enough.

To his relief, the sun was setting. Even after all these years on the surface, Drizzt still found daylight uncomfortable. It also served as a constant reminded of his race's fallen state and how, were circumstances different, they could achieve a level of greatness equal to that of their surface cousins. But most of the drow seemed content to carry on as they always did, endlessly stabbing each other in the back for short-term gain and worshipping their loathsome goddess who cared nothing for them at all. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

There was the sound of someone approaching rapidly on the path ahead. Unsure of whom it might be, he moved to the side of the road, ready to conceal himself in the undergrowth of the forest if need be. One couldn't be too careful around these parts, and while Drizzt was more than capable of defending himself, he preferred to avoid violence.

A lone woman, wearing a cloak over head, was making her way along the road. When she drew nearer, Drizzt realised that she was a drow.

She froze when she saw him standing there, looking just as surprised to see another drow as he was. " _Vel'bol l'vith?_ " she gasped. "I did not expect to encounter another of my kind on the surface."

He moved his hands to his scimitars, a hundred different thoughts running through his mind. "Who are you?"

The woman stiffened her back and adopted the haughty posture of one who is used to getting what she wants. It was a look Drizzt was all too familiar with. "You, male, will identify yourself first!"

"Perhaps you are one of Lolth's minions?" he said with a taunting tone, ignoring her question. "I know she would reward well anyone who brought back the head of _Drizzt Do'Urden._ "

If she were impressed at all, she did not show it. "'Drizzt Do'Urden'," she repeated. "That is a very well-known name in my home...a very _hated_ name. And I am no servant of the Spider Queen, if that is your fear. It is Shar who guides my hand...consider yourself fortunate, male, that I am willing to share even this much with you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Shar? I don't think that's much of an improvement."

She sneered at him. "I don't think I care what you think!"

"You still haven't told me your name, haughty one."

The woman lowered her hood, revealing that she was quite beautiful, although in Drizzt's experience it was the attractive drow who tended to be the most bloodthirsty. "If you _must_ know, I am Viconia, of House DeVir."

Now _there_ was a name he had not heard in some time, and it was a name that went along with a flood of bad memories. House Do'Urden had utterly destroyed House DeVir around the time of his birth, and knowing the length of the time the average drow held a grudge, it was entirely possible that she would want to kill him.

Viconia appeared to anticipate his reaction. "I have no quarrel with you, Drizzt Do'Urden. I suggest you allow me to carry on without molestation."

"Very well, but let me give you some advice before you go, as I sense you have come to the surface recently and are unused to its ways. Know that our race is hated and despised here, and that this world can be every bit as dangerous as the Underdark. I would suggest you find some friends you can trust, if the ability to form friendship has not already been beaten out of you by our kind's merciless ways. Secondly, lose the attitude. Whatever power or authority you possessed in Menzoberranzan will not avail you here."

She paused for a few seconds, unsure of herself. "Perhaps...perhaps we should travel together. I have travelled many miles by myself, and your company would be...welcome." She spoke that last word with tremendous difficulty.

"You may accompany me, though I will not be surprised at all should you decide to betray me. I will not be surprised, either, if your reason for betraying me is one that is incredibly petty and stupid."

He caught what he thought was a smile on Viconia's face. "If you did not expect me to betray you, I would be greatly disappointed."

Drizzt sighed. "I guess we drow never learn. It's part of our charm."

The two began walking together, with Drizzt remaining some distance behind her, hoping to keep her in his sight at all times. He told himself that this was because he did not trust this woman one bit, and that it had _nothing_ to do with the absolutely magnificent _et'zarreth_ she possessed.


	10. The Wrath of Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now working on a Shadowrun stroy based upon the hero of this story, an absurd tale of elves, heavy metal, folk music, and Finland. The first chapter has already been posted.

Chapter 10 – The Wrath of Nature

* * *

_Netheril and the Folly of Empire_

_by Talvi Korpela_

_When ones examines the historical and literary records (the latter all too often ignored by scholars, unable as they are to see past their parochial worldviews), it becomes clear that the Netherese Empire reached its cultural and territorial apex around -620 DR, at which point the empire began a long slide into the grave that invariably awaits all empires._

_An age of decadence inevitably followed. Cynicism, nihilism, pessimism, narcissism, fatalism, materialism, and fanaticism suffused the population. Life became increasingly unjust, cultural and political institutions became ever more corrupt. A cabal of the rich and powerful engaged in bloody machinations and power politics while the citizenry sank into apathy and despair, living only for bread and circuses. Culture was despised, the liberal arts ridiculed, intellectual pursuits degraded, and the populace lived for nothing but endless toil and drudgery in service to the cruel and merciless overlords whom they served. What vigour, vitality, and virtue their civilisation possessed was totally effaced. Putrid and rotten to its very core, the Netherese Empire awaited collapse, with only the date remaining to be determined._

_The Netherese were an ambitious people, ever eager to encroach upon their neighbours, without a spark of good faith. The final centuries of the empire saw an increasingly belligerent attitude towards the surrounding polities, most notably the elven nation of Illefarn. With a perspective on history that only the lengthy elven lifespan can provide, the greatest minds of Illefarn understood that the fundamental Netherese identuty had long ago coalesced around the idea of the savage "Other," and thus their identity was wholly based on war. Correctly perceiving that Netheril would be adopting an ever more warlike and deranged foreign policy, they sacrificed one of their foremost wizards in an arcane ritual that transformed into a being of pure magic who would be a tireless defender of the borders of their realm..._

Imoen's voice broke Talvi from her thoughts. "Still working on that book?"

"As I've explained many times, Imoen, just because we no longer live in Candlekeep doesn't mean we can neglect our studies."

"Well I've been studying your magic books while you sleep," she said. "That's stuff dryer than Anauroch! But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it."

"Have you? Magic is about far more than just casting spells. You must know _when_ is the appropriate time to cast _what_ spell. Suppose some brute comes at you with a knife, intending some serious violence to your person. What do you do?"

"I cast 'Protection From Normal Weapons!'" said Imoen proudly, totally confident in her answer.

"Now suppose he's got someone with him, someone with a bow who's drawing an arrow. What do you do then?"

"Cast 'Protection From Normal Missiles!'"

Talvi was quick with a rebuke. "But you can't cast two spells simultaneously, not unless you have prepared sequencers or contingencies ahead of time. By the time you have readied your second spell you might have already been reduced to a pincushion. So now what do you do?"

She pondered the question for a few moments, then answered with, "I scream like a little girl and run away?"

"Fleeing would be acceptable, though screaming would be a touch undignified."

Talvi returned to writing in her book, and for the next few minutes there was nothing but silence between them until Imoen perked right up and said, "Hey, you got any good stories to tell? Back home ol' Puffguts would always tell me a story..."

"I'm afraid, Imoen, that most of the stories I know are elven in nature. I doubt they would appeal to you. They are very lengthy, and their moral and philosophical content is likely to drive non-elves to madness."

"Aw, but you gotta know something!"

"Well, since we are so near to it, perhaps I might retell the story of Durlag's Tower."

Her suggestion seemed to satisfy Imoen. " _Ooh..._ I heard that's a good one."

"Yes, well, it all started with the dwarven adventurer Durlag Trollkiller, son of Bolhur Thunderaxe. Dwarves, you see, are terribly literal and unimaginative in their appellations. His heroic deeds were great and numerous, and while I am sure they are exaggerated, as such things are, the tales tell of how he slew a dragon with naught but his axe and how he bravely stood alone against the drow hordes, leaving scores of dead in his wake. After years of adventuring he had amassed an immense fortune, yet he was unsatisfied with his lot. His father had never founded a clan of his own, a mistake Durlag was determined not to repeat, so after marrying the love of his life, Islanne, he used his wealth to construct a massive fortress where he and his future clan could live in peace. It was said that he had amassed so much treasure that a man could stand waist-deep in the piles of gold and treasure."

"But someone came and stole it, didn't they?" Imoen interjected. "That's what I would have done!"

Talvi bristled at being interrupted. "Yes, his avarice drew the eyes of malevolent forces – a cabal of illithids who coveted his treasure and whose lair Durlag's tower had encroached upon. They had their servants – members of that vile race known as doppelgängers – slay Durlag's family and assume their form. He did not realise the deception until his own family turned on him, and it was said the act of killing those who bore the faces of his loved ones drove Durlag to madness."

"This story isn't gonna have a happy ending, is it?"

"Pay attention! After slaying the last of the doppelgängers, Durlag was consumed with paranoia, and so he filled his tower with all manner of traps and pitfalls intended to kill intruders in the most horrific ways imaginable. The notions of wealth beyond measure attracted countless adventurers seeking fame and fortune, yet all who dared to venture into the dark depths of the tower wound up maimed or killed by Durlag's infernal contraptions. This went on for some time, until at last Durlag perished alone and clanless, tormented to his last day by anguish and regret."

Imoen scowled at Talvi. "Well that was sure depressing! Why can't you tell me a story that has a happy ending?"

"Because the tragedy of Durlag's tale contains an important moral lesson about the folly of greed. And besides, were you not trying to foist some those abominably grim adventuring novels upon me but a few days ago?"

"Yeah, but those are _different._ "

"But of course they are; they contain no moral lessons at all, only dreadfully nihilistic humbug and taradiddle."

Once the others were awake (for this was one of those rare days when Talvi awoke before her companions), they set out in a north-easterly direction, following a poorly-maintained road the skirted the western edge of the Wood of Sharp Teeth. Whenever she glanced towards the trees, she felt the nigh-irresistible urge to throw off her clothes and frolic in the woods, a desire that, quite frustratingly, none of her companions shared or understood.

Her thoughts turned to the strange dream she had experienced last night. It involved several ominous portents: a sea of blood, a mountain of skulls, the shrieking and wailing of the damned, and many other things that would have been frightening had Talvi not regarded them as being terribly cliché. One thing stuck in her mind, however, were the words " _You will learn_ " echoing for somewhere dark and vestigial within her psyche. Though she had never heard this voice before, it spoke with the authority of someone who had known her for the entirety of her existence. This offended her.

"So how are we gonna find these bandits, anyway?" Imoen asked. "Just wander around until we bump into them?"

Talvi stopped a second to look around. "Hmm, well, they would have to be camped somewhere near the road so that they can ambush travellers, but sufficiently deep in the forest that they can avoid detection."

"Those riff-raff and nick-ninnies! We ought to give those bubbers and clank nappers a taste of our pokers n' toasting irons! Aye, that'd be out-and-out rum and bene, it would!"

"Imoen, how many times did I tell you to stay away from that dictionary of thieves' cant? It makes you sound ridiculous."

"Aw, you're just an ol' finger post, you spoil pudding!"

Jaheira, as always, offered her advice unbidden. "If we keep walking this road, we may very well stumble upon our enemies. I, however, would rather face them on our own terms."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Talvi said.

"I cannot say where the brigands dwell or where they have travelled," she replied, turning to face the forest, "but nature knows, and remembers."

She walked to the edge of the woods, saying not a word. To Talvi, it looked as though Jaheira were simply staring off into space. Despite her keen arcane senses, she could not detect even the faintest residue of magic in the air.

"Are we gonna see some druid magic?" said Imoen.

" _Shhh!_ "

"This way," said Jaheira after several minutes.

Though it possessed an ominous name, Talvi found the Wood of Sharp Teeth to be one of the more pleasant places they had ventured through. The high canopy shielded them from the heat of the midday sun, and the sounds of the forest were intensely pleasing to her elven sensibilities. Aside from Jaheira, however, none of the others looked to be enjoying themselves, and Dynaheir was getting the worst of it. She was repeatedly getting the fabric of her robe caught on branches or stumbling over the rocks and fallen logs, and the endless stream of Rashemi curses muttered beneath her breath attested to her unhappiness.

"I would have thought a _wychlaran_ of Rashemen would be more accustomed to woodland travel," Talvi remarked.

"'Tis a land more mountainous than wooded," she said while trying to free her robe from a branch without tearing it.

"So tell me again why you have come all the way to the Sword Coast? You spoke of a 'spawn of Bhaal'…?"

Dynaheir looked down. "Since Minsc cannot keep a secret, I shall tell thee. Dost thou know of the prophecies of Alaundo?"

"Of course I do. I've spent nearly all my life in Candlekeep, and every day there was a group of most tiresome people who would stand beneath my bedroom and ceaselessly chant Alaundo's prophecies for hours at a time. I could never fathom the purpose of it, unless it was simply to annoy me, but whatever their reasons I would usually drive them away with a few choice words or, in extreme circumstances, by throwing things at them. I found that writing instruments were best suited for this task; the pens and quills used by the monks of Candlekeep are capable of inflicting grievous bodily harm if flung at sufficient speed. On some days, it became necessary to hurl an entire lectern at them to compel them to desist."

"Ahem...yes. The prophecy speaketh of the spawn of Bhaal and the chaos they shall wreak upon the Realms. The _hathran_ believe that the time of the prophecy draweth nigh, and that it shall unfold upon the Sword Coast."

Talvi felt uneasy all of a sudden with the direction this conversation was taking. "If you are seeking a Bhaalspawn, then I am sure the vile fiend who slew my foster-father is one of them. I suspect Gorion learned the truth about his nature, and he was killed for his knowledge. Now he seeks my death, for what end I cannot say, though I have my theories."

"This 'fiend' of which thou speakest...what dost thou know of him?"

"I only saw him briefly, and it was rather dark," she said bitterly. "The only germane quality I can recall was the armour he wore. It was festooned with all manner of spikes and skulls – quite absurd, really – which leads me to believe that he is a very superficial individual, possessing form without content. As for his repeated attempts on my life, I am convinced that he is a frustrated writer who, owing to his Bhaalspawn blood, is inclined towards writing the most blood-soaked, gore-spattered dreck one can imagine. Since I have not been sparing in my condemnation of such works, it is obvious that he wishes to silence me by the most violent means possible. My pointed criticism of his novel – whichever one it was - forced him to acknowledge his utter vacuity as a person and lack of anything resembling a rich inner life, hence his deplorable bloodlust. All forms of violence are a quest for identity, after all. True survival consists in living in accordance with one's nature, which cannot be achieved until the risk of spiritual death is confronted."

Dynaheir opened her mouth to speak, but before uttering so much as a word she turned away and whispered something to Minsc.

They followed Jaheira through the woods until well past midday, and anyone unversed in druidic practices would have sworn that she had gotten the group hopelessly lost. Imoen continually grumbled at how tired her feet were from walking, while Minsc consulted his hamster regarding the specifics of his personal philosophy towards life. Talvi found herself instinctively tugging at the edge of her robes, so overpowering was the urge to throw off her clothes and go frolicking amidst the trees.

Though the Wood of Sharp Teeth was uninhabited, every so often they would stumble upon ruins and barrows belonging to some long-forgotten people. Though little remained of their civilisation except moss-covered, weather-beaten stones, Talvi sensed something innately elvish about the ruins, and she was consumed with the desire to investigate them.

"A thorough archaeological expedition must be conducted," she said, running her fingers across one of the stones. "Look at this inscription here: it has been made in a very archaic form of the Espruar alphabet. I dare say we may have stumbled across the remains of an as-of-yet undiscovered elven nation! The ruins must excavated, artefacts catalogued, inscriptions translated, and any magical devices retrieved for study by a coterie of the most learned elven sages-"

Jaheira raised her hand, commanding her to be silent. "The bandits' camp is near. Keep your voice down."

"Then we must endeavour to remove the blackguards at once, before they see fit to plunder these ruins for the sake of dubious profit."

Less than twenty paces ahead the woods suddenly gave way to a broad clearing, and what Talvi saw there was utterly demoralising. She had envisioned the bandits' camp as being a handful of tents, but this was more akin to a small village. A half-dozen yurts were scattered around the clearing, with the wrecked remains of wagons and caravans scattered about as a silent testament to the bandits' success. One tent in particular dominated the others, and a closer examination revealed a truly sickening sight: three rotting corpses strung up between the tent poles. The carrion crows were already picking at their remains, adding to the grisly display.

The rest of the camp was even more disheartening. There were dozens upon dozens of cut-throats and brigands moving about, and Talvi was thankful that she was upwind of their foul stench. There were hobgoblins, gnolls, and humans amongst them, yet man stood out from the rest. It was hard not to notice him, for he stood a head taller than the others, and he wore a polished chain shirt that gleamed brilliantly in the sun. He carried a warhammer on his back, a weapon so enormous it looked as though no one short of a giant could possibly wield it.

"Who is that?" Talvi whispered to Jaheira, taking cover behind a large tree root so that she wouldn't be seen.

"That is Taurgosz Khosann," she answered, "leader of the Blacktalon mercenaries. They call him 'Tenhammer' for slaying ten men with one blow of his hammer."

Talvi frowned. "Well that is just absurd. How would one accomplish such a feat? The mechanics of it are simply mind-boggling!"

"Maybe they were all standing around him in a circle?" Imoen suggested. "Maybe he spun around like a ballerina, smashin' their heads in with his hammer as he went?"

"But the recoil upon striking one man, let alone two or three, would sap the strength of the blow to such a degree that additional fatalities would be impossible!"

Imoen thought it over for a moment. "Maybe those ten guys were standing together at the edge of a cliff, all bunched up, and he hit em' so hard they all fell off?"

"I suppose that's possible, but you must admit it's a dreadfully contrived scenario-"

"Quiet, child!" Jaheira hissed.

"I'm just saying that if a man is going to come up with some fearsome moniker, then it ought to be based on something within the realm of believability! Expecting others to believe that he slew ten men with one blow of his hammer reveals quite clearly his total lack of contact with reality."

Khalid observed the bandits, becoming more distraught with each passing second. "W-w-what are we going to d-d-do?" he whimpered. "We c-c-can't fight them a-a-all..."

Even Minsc, as given as he was to berserker rages, seemed to agree with him. "Hmm, yes Boo, you might be right. As much as it pains my mighty warrior spirit, we cannot charge blindly on. Yes Boo, you will be feasting on the eyeballs of evildoers soon, I promise."

Talvi's head whipped around to shoot him a horrified glare. "' _Feast on their eyeballs'?_ What sort of creature is that... _hamster_...of yours? Rodents are not a carnivorous species!"

He ignored her and continued speaking to his animal companion. "Do not listen to the silly elf, Boo. She knows not of what she speaks..."

"All of you, be quiet!" Jaheira snarled. "There are more of them than we can face by ourselves, but there are other allies we can call upon."

"You mean the Harpers?" Talvi asked.

She did not answer her question. Instead, she led them away from the clearing until they were in no danger of being seen or heard by the bandits, where she spoke to them in a tone of utmost seriousness. "Nature knows of the crimes these brigands have committed, and her vengeance will be swift and bloody. I must leave you now for some time; do _not_ follow me."

With that Jaheira turned around and walked off into the woods, leaving the rest of them looking at each other in confusion.

"What was that all about, huh?" Imoen pouted.

"Clearly she intends to perform some druidic rite or another," said Talvi. "Though I must say, I am troubled by the way she described nature as a 'she'. One would think a druid aware of the fact that nature transcends gender binaries."

"Is she gonna make the trees attack? I wanna see that!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Imoen. I'm quite sure that druidic magic is subtle and thoroughly unobstentatious, and I dare say it will likely be entirely beneath our notice."

Talvi had no idea how wrong she was.

* * *

It was near midnight and all the Blacktalon mercenaries were asleep, all save for Taurgosz Khosann, who was deep in the thrall of an existential crisis.

His men were sleeping outside, as the gnolls and hobgoblins had already taken the tents for themselves and none of the Blacktalons wanted to sleep near those foul-smelling savages. Taurgosz, on the other hand, wandered about the camp, hammer in hand, endlessly vexed by the philosophical quandary that was assailing his mind.

(Taurgosz had a habit of never being without his warhammer, to the point where he took it with him to his bedroll every night. This, naturally, resulted in his men making all sorts of lewd jokes about his relationship with the hammer. Taurgosz took it all in stride, expressing his merriment by laughing along at their jests and then bashing their skulls in.)

By the standards of his chosen profession, he was very successful: the Blacktalons had established a reputation as one of the fiercest, most effective mercenary groups on the Sword Coast, and when he walked the streets of Iriaebor the throngs would part before him, so terrified were they of his mighty hammer. Killing was his business, and business was good.

And yet he felt... _empty..._ somehow.

As he was not a man accustomed to thinking too terribly about things, Taurgosz found it difficult to articulate his discontent. Leading men into battle, smashing his enemies' heads in – the joy he took in these things had diminished somehow, and he was at a loss to explain why.

He suspected that the half-orc Tazok was responsible, at least in part. The rank and file of the Blacktalons and the Chill both believed that Tazok was a member of the Zhentarim, but this was a lie told to them in the event they were captured and interrogated. In reality, they were both doing the bidding of the Iron Throne, some merchant guild in Baldur's Gate. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was a pawn in someone else's plot that had made Taurgosz so disaffected, but as a mercenary, wasn't he _always_ someone's pawn? No, the source of his unhappiness had to lie elsewhere.

While he pondered the matter, he heard a faint rustling coming from the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing. He raised his hammer and scanned the woods, but he could make out nothing in the darkness.

The sound grew louder, and a second later a large brown bear emerged from the forest. It was hardly unusual to encounter such creatures in these part, so Taurgosz paid no attention to at first. But then he saw that the bear was charging directly towards him, almost as if it bore him a great deal of animosity…

Suddenly the entire forest around the camp burst into a cacophony of growling and snarling. The noise was enough to wake the others in the camp, who got to their feet just in time to see a ravenous horde of bears and wolves emerge from the undergrowth.

" _Alarm! Alarm!_ " he bellowed.

The bear lunged at him with its claw, intending to disembowel him, but Taurgosz twisted to the side and brought his hammer down on the beast's head, killing it instantly. While he stood over the bear's bloody corpse, the gravity of the situation quickly dawned on him. His men were caught off-guard, without their arms or armour, and the beasts of the forest were tearing them apart with savage ferocity.

He glanced to his right just in time to see a bear relieve one of his lieutenants of his entrails, while a trio of wolves busied themselves devouring the camp's cook, no doubt finding him much more palatable than his life. Roaring a battle cry, Taurgosz charged into the fray, thinking only of the pile of bearskin rugs he was going to have when it was all over.

* * *

Talvi watched the gruesome play out before, disgusted by what she saw yet unable to turn away. "I had hoped we might have resolved this _without_ the need for violence," she said to Jaheira standing next to her.

"If you must know one of thing of nature, know that it is often cruel and without pity. If my words cannot convince you, then gaze upon her wrath, and always remember."

After departing the group, Jaheira had not returned until well after nightfall. Their first clue that she had worked her druidic magic was the loud commotion coming from the bandit camp; when they went to investigate, they found it under assault by a veritable army of wolves, bears, and other woodland predators. It was not long before the camp was overrun and the bandits routed, and Talvi watched it all play out before her with increasing disgust, knowing full well that this was not going to be the last bloody massacre she would be witness to.

She followed her companions into the camp, trying to avert her eyes from the mauled, mangled, and mutilated remains of the bandits. Khalid had gone pale and looked as though he were about to vomit, while Minsc acted like a man completely lost in a world only he inhabited. Jaheira led them towards the largest of the tents, the one decorated with the rotting remains of the bandits' unfortunate victims. Talvi pinched her nostrils shut with her fingers, knowing she would surely start retching if she had but a whiff of the foul stench hanging in the air.

Jaheira drew her blade and cautiously advanced into the tent, with her husband following closely behind. The interior was a chaotic mess of carts, barrels, crates, and other sundry containers, all filled with the bandits' ill-gotten gains. Standing out amidst the clutter was a crude stone throne resting atop a fine Calimshan rug, flanked by a pair of banners representing the Chill and Blacktalon mercenary groups. The artwork, Talvi thought, was thoroughly amateurish, looking like the product of either a finger-painting child or a drunken sot. Not that she expected much from mercenaries, but a modicum of effort in even a minor aristic endeavour such as this would have been appreciated.

The sole inhabitant of the tent was an elven man dressed entirely in black and who looked to have been quite thoroughly mistreated. Beneath his dirty brown hair, Talvi could see the numerous bruises and welts on his face, and it pained her greatly to see one of her own kind treated in such a deplorable fashion. He did not look to be restrained, yet she suspected that he had not been brought here on his own volition.

"Eh? Who's this, then?" he said, looking the group over with a suspicious glint in his eyes. "You're not with Tazok, are you? What was all that noise outside?"

"Nature restoring the balance," Jaheira answered coldly. "Now tell us who you are, and what are you doing here."

"Oh great, a _druid._ I suppose I'll figure out what all this babbling of yours about 'balance' means in a few months or so. Bloody hell, I hate talking to you people! You act like I ploughed your mother just 'cause I killed a rabbit and boiled 'im up for a stew once upon a time. Let me tell you, that rabbit had it coming. He was right cheeky bastard and I don't feel bad at all for cutting 'im up eating 'im."

Jaheira was not amused. "Answer my question. Are you working with these bandits?"

"I be a thief from the city, but I know enough not to run with this crew. They're a rotten lot, and the Chill and Blacktalons are even worse. There's others, like that priest Mulahey they sent to poison the Nashkel mines. Strangest thing happened with 'im; just the day before he comes marching into this here tent and starts going on about how he's got to 'prove his courage' or some such thing. So he walks up to Tazok and starts making some jibes about his mum, and Tazok up and guts the poor sod right then and there."

Jaheira tapped her foot impatiently. "Tell me about this Tazok."

"He's the half-ogre who runs this here camp. The Chill and Blacktalons take orders from 'im, and they both think he's getting orders from the Zhents. But I can tell you sure as sunrise that the Zhents aren't involved."

"And how do you know this?"

"I'm the best thief in the business, but even I wouldn't mess with the Zhentarim. No, I choose my enemies carefully, and I chose the Iron Throne. I cracked the rum swag, came off with a round sum, and bolted. Then right as rain I end up here. Doesn't take a sage to put two and two together. They've got it all in black and white in that chest over there." He pointed to a large trunk sitting by the throne.

"The Iron Throne, where else might we find them?"

"They've got a fortress in the Gate, but I wouldn't go near that place if I was you. People that go in there tend not to come out again. Tazok's being making regular visits to Cloakwood, so that's where I'd go next, if I was feeling heroic. If you catch up with the by-blow, stick a blade down his gullet and tell 'im Ender Sai sent you."

The elf made his way outside with all haste, letting out a few choice words when he saw the carnage outside. Talvi turned her attention to the chest he had mentioned, which, upon opening, contained several letters that had been casually tossed inside. More interesting were what looked to be a case for wizards' spell scrolls, used to protect them for water, fire, lightning, and any other hazard commonly encountered by the adventuring mage. To her great delight, shaking the case revealed that there were already scrolls within it.

"Aww, I don't see any coin in there," Imoen whined. "I''ll bet those bandits got loads of money stashed around here."

"I'd rather we not spend another minute in these place of death, Imoen. Let us begone from here."

"I-I-I agree," Khalid murmured. "I am need of a g-g-good night's r-r-rest..."

"That be would wise," Jaheira added. "Some of the bandits fled into the woods, and I would leave before they return."

Imoen began to pout. "But what's the point of raiding a bandit camp if you aren't going to take their stuff? You don't know the first thing about adventuring!"

* * *

When they made camp that night, Talvi found herself terribly ill at ease. Imoen and Minsc were busy chatting about something or other – she wasn't really paying much attention to either of them – while Dynaheir studied her spellbook. But the massacre at the bandit camp had jarred Talvi's nerves so badly that she couldn't concentrate on her own spellbook, and thus was reduced to pacing around the campfire, wholly lost in her thoughts.

Finally, Jaheira had had enough. "Something is troubling you, child," she said in that motherly tone of voice that Talvi found intensely irritating.

She looked down at the package of documents they had obtained from the bandits' camp. "Perhaps it was naive of me, but I had hoped that we might have accomplished our goals without such horrendous amounts of bloodshed. Gorion always said that violence was the last refuge of the incompetent, and he was quite insistent on this point. I dare say that, if the adventuring profession involves turning every place you go into an abattoir, then it would have been better had I never left the walls of Candlekeep!" Anticipating Jaheira's response, she added, "And I don't want to hear one bit about how such barbarism is part of nature; there are a great many things in the natural world that are unacceptable amongst civilised folk, and it is simply stupidity to declare one thing or another to be justified merely because it is a 'natural' occurrence."

Jaheira's expression did not change. "You will find, Talvi, that those whom you call 'civilised' are capable of greater depravity that anything I have ever witnessed in nature. There are a many in the world who are not amenable to reason, who cannot be bargained with, and who cannot communicate by any means except the point of a sword. But to shed blood is not something done lightly, nor is it something to be relished. _That_ is what you must remember."

"Gorion often told me of certain people," she began, "who come to believe, either through the influence of others or their own reasoning, that they are somehow _extraordinary_ _,_ that the bounds of conventional morality no longer apply to them, and that the true sign of their extraordinariness is this very act of _stepping over._ In their mind, any act of violence becomes justified so long as it furthers their aims-"

Jaheira raised a hand. "You do not need to remind me of what Gorion taught you. I cannot dispute his wisdom, but even he could not see all ends. It was always his desire that you should lead, in his words, a 'quiet life'. He believed the environment of Candlekeep would better prepare you for the 'challenges' that lay ahead, but I think he was far too sheltering."

Talvi recoiled from her. "What? What 'challenges'? He never spoke of anything like this!"

"I'm afraid he never explained what he meant by that," she answered with a sigh. "Khalid and I considered Gorion our friend, but he was always secretive, and there was much he never spoke of. When it came to the matter of your...adoption...he said even less."

It was strange, now that she thought of it, that Talvi had known Gorion all of her life and counted him as the greatest influence upon her upbringing, yet she knew so little about his past. "I don't see why that ought to be," she said. "Surely children are adopted all the time."

Imoen wandered over, having overheard their conversation. "You talking about Gorion? He never told me nothin' about me neither! Didn't even give me a last name. Talvi's got a last name and I don't. How's that fair?"

"You could always just give yourself a surname if you so desired," Talvi said.

She ignored her. "If you ran with Gorion and the Harpers back in the day, I'll bet you got a lot of great stories to tell, Aunty Jaheira!"

If being called "Aunty" annoyed her, she did not show it. "Perhaps, but there would be no excitement in them, since you know we survived. And I'm afraid I have little talent as a storyteller."

"Well, maybe you could tell them to Talvi, and then she could tell them to me! I mean, she just _loves_ going and on and on and on about all sorts of things, don'tcha Talvi?"

Talvi cleared her throat. "Returning to what we were discussing, I just think it would be dishonouring Gorion's memory if we did not make every effort to avoid bloodshed in the future.

"That is an admirable goal, though fate may choose another path. Now, I suggest you get some rest. We must reach Cloakwood in all haste; I fear our attack on the bandits will not have gone unnoticed and our enemy will surely retaliate in the near future. There is a circle of druids there, though I don't know what kind of welcome we can expect from them." From the way she spoke those last words, it was clear she had some sort of history with these druids, although getting it out of her would be a fool's errand.

Before Talvi turned in for the night, however, she looked over the bandits' documents. Most of it was uninteresting and irrelevant, but a pair of correspondences were rather illuminating.

_Tazok,_

_Sarevok's demands are becoming intolerable. This morning I received a letter from him complaining about the quality of iron from our mine here in Cloakwood. He indicated that weapons fashioned from our iron "could not hold an edge" and would be worthless in battle. Does the fool not know the first thing about metalworking? Perhaps he should ask the man who made that absurd_ _armour of his for an introduction to the subject._

_He has also indicated that a band of adventurers might be causing the Iron Throne some trouble in the future. Whether there is any truth to this or if it's just his paranoia raging out of control, I cannot say._ _Whatever the truth of the matter is, you should prepare your camp for any possible incursion._

_-Davaeorn_

At last she had a name: _Sarevok._ Talvi was sure she had never heard the name before, but something about it seemed to tug at her subconscious, as if she had heard it mentioned years ago and she only now just remembered it. Whoever Sarevok was, he was clearly someone of importance in the Iron Throne organisation.

She read the next letter:

_Tazok,_

_I have noticed that your shipments of iron ore have slowed as of late. While I understand that the Flaming Fist has been increasing the strength and number of their patrols, we will need at least an additional ton of ore before our ultimatum is given. Step up your raids and get the iron to our base in Cloakwood as soon as possible. Be warned that there is a significant infestation of druids within the Cloakwood forest,_ _so_ _take care not to draw their attention. I doubt they are much of a threat,_ _but their sermonising and lecturing is liable to make you slit your own throat just to get away from it._ _It makes me wonder what it is that compels a man to take up the druidic profession. Perhaps it is some peculiar perversion of the spirit,_ _or maybe it is the result of some inborn strain of feeble-mindedness._

_Sarevok demands to know if those adventurers I wrote of have been dealt with. As proof of their demise, he will not accept anything less than their heads presented to him in a box. While this is clearly a sign of his escalating insanity, you had best make sure that these meddlers are killed in short order, as Sarevok will not take kindly to any other news._

_-Davaeorn_

_So there is some discord between this Davaeorn and Sarevok,_ Talvi thought. An idea began coalescing in her mind. Amongst the items she had taken from the bandits' camp was a signet ring bearing what she assumed was the insignia of the Iron Throne, along with a stick of red sealing wax. She retrieved a quill and a blank sheet of parchment from her pack and began composing a letter to the Sarevok, meticulously imitating Davaeorn's particular style of writing.


	11. Druidic Rites and Perversions

Chapter 11 – Druidic Rites and Perversions

* * *

It did not come as a surprise to Duke Eltan that rumours and hearsay spread like fire in dry grass during troubled times.

He just wished that people would exercise a little common sense and reject out of hand notions that were patently absurd, such as the idea that this whole "iron crisis" was the result of a band scurrilous gnomes who were effecting a magical plague upon the region's iron supplies to please their demonic patron. Another bit of speculation, only slightly more plausible, was that it was a radical branch of the druidic faith behind it all, and the iron plague was just the first salvo in their war on the "unnatural" practices of civilised folk.

But this latest explanation for the crisis was something else entirely.

Eltan read the letter once more, trying to determine whether or not this was some elaborate jest:

_Your Grace_

_Speaking as the headmaster of the Neverwinter Academy, I believe I have uncovered the source of the mysterious contagion afflicting Baldur's Gate and the surrounding regions. It is the will of Lord Nasher that you take immediate action, lest th_ _is insidious plague spread northwards._

_The blame for this calamity can be laid squarely at the feat of those pox-ridden knaves and fustilarians who call themselves bards, jesters, minstrels, merrymakers, jongleurs, troubadours, and balladeers. These vile, debauched villains are without honour, decency, or conscience, shamelessly seducing innocent maidens wherever they go, leaving a terrible trail of broken hearts and bastards in their wake. They are veritable creatures from the Abyss, living only to torment honest and proper folk. They deserve nothing less than death._

_You may wonder why they have conspired to contaminate your storehouses of iron. The truth, which you may find difficult to grasp, is that there_ is _no reason, no motive, and no purpose behind their actions. Bards enjoy spreading chaos simply for its own sake; the iron plague is nothing more than an elaborate jest on their part. Many of them are servants of Cyric, openly flaunting their worship of the Mad God in defiance of all that is good and decent. By luck I managed to observe the debauchery of bards first-hand in the Moonstone Mask, a well-known house of ill-repute in Neverwinter that I visit on occasion (purely for academic reasons, of course)._

_My grace, there are no words to describe the sheer depravity of what I saw. One of the bards made his way, completely unbidden, to one end of the Moonstone Mask, where he immediately launched into a most scandalously ribald song, and he was soon accompanied by a dwarven fiddler of no discernible talent or ability and elf who played a lute so badly that he must have been doing so deliberately as some insipidly ironic statement against artistic rigour. They piece they had chosen to play that fateful day was a bawdy tale about a traveller to the Abyss who chances upon a succubus, and immediately my virgin ears were assailed by verse after vulgar verse describing her shapely thighs, her taut buttocks, and her firm, ample breasts. "Filth!" I cried, hoping that, as the lone voice of good taste, I might make the crowd understand the utter degeneracy of the spectacle playing out before them. Yet my words were drowned by the next verse, which described using, one strained metaphor after another, how the singer penetrated the succubus with his throbbing, uncircumcised member. At this very moment the audience, their sense of morality completely enervated, launched into a wild orgy of fornication and sin. A hand grabbed me from behind and threw me to the floor, where a grotesquely obese half-orc began pouring a flagon of ale down my throat. One of the serving wenches threw herself atop me, her exposed cleavage coming perilously close to my face, and it was only through my superior physical strength that I managed to free myself from her lascivious embrace._

_In a daze I sought an escape from the chaos, only to find the way barred by a devotee of Loviatar who had bent a man over a table and was now furiously paddling his posterior, all the while a trio of naked halflings sung blasphemous praises to her foul goddess. The trio of bards continued playing through this grand spectacle of obscenity, now singing a thoroughly-repugnant ballad about an amorous liaison between Sharess and Sune, who had been bizarrely transformed somehow into a pair of nauseatingly lustful tribades. Sickened as I was by this horrid affront to the gods, I felt it my duty to record mentally all of what I saw so that I might recount these horrors at a later date._

_Your Grace, I will not tell of how I escaped that terrible state of affairs, for doing so would far exceed the standards of decency. But now that you have been enlightened as to their revolting behaviour, you must surely realise that it is the bards who are responsible for your city's predicament._

_Fortunately, the solution to this crisis is a simple one: every bard within your city's walls must be rounded up and beheaded. Once this has been done, their bodies must be burned so that resurrection is beyond even the most skilled clerics (one must remember that just because a bard is missing his head does not mean he is dead). The severed heads should be displayed on pikes mounted along the walls by the city gatehouse to serve as a warning._

_With any luck, this iron plague will be stopped before it spreads any further, and the scourge of this bardic pestilence may be cleansed from your fair city._

_\- With utmost respect,_

_Alerio Clunes,_

_Headmaster, Neverwinter Academy_

And this was the hardly the most unusual thing to have happened over the past few weeks.

First, there was the matter of the Seven Suns Trading Coster. For years it had been a keystone of the city's economy, but over the past few weeks the merchants' behaviour had altered dramatically. Not only were they selling off assets at absurdly low prices, they had were routinely reneging on their more profitable trading contracts, losing vast sums of money and thoroughly debasing their reputation. Given the timing of events, Eltan was certain the Seven Suns had been infiltrated by the same people who were behind the iron plague.

But who were these shadowy conspirators? Eltan suspected the Iron Throne, though he had no direct evidence of their involvement. There were rumours of nefarious going-ons in that old tower of theirs, and there had been a disturbing number of people who had plummeted to their death from its rooftop. The Flaming Fist had made several inquires about the matter, and every time a representative of the Iron Throne would brush off the deaths as "construction accidents" despite there being no evidence of any construction occurring.

He stared out the window, looking over his beloved Baldur's Gate with despair. This was truly the most trying period for the city since the Year of the Black Horde.

"A letter for you, Your Grace."

Eltan turned around to see one of the palace's pages holding a rolled up letter in his hands. "From whom?"

"From the Neverwinter Academy, Your Grace."

Frowning, he took the letter from the page, who immediately departed to carry out the rest of his duties. After breaking the seal, Eltan sat down to read the missive.

_Your Grace_

_It has recently come to my attention that the headmaster of our academy, Alerio Clunes, has recently dispatched a letter to your office regarding the supposed origin of the "iron plague" afflicting your city. This letter will no doubt be filled with the headmaster's usual demented ravings and paranoid ramblings implicating bards and minstrels as the culprits. While Alerio has proven to be a capable enough administrator, he displays a peculiar form of monomania wherein he believes, with absolute conviction, that bards are responsible for every calamity and misfortune ranging from the Time of Troubles to minor downturns in the local economy. This_ idée fixe _of his has resisted all forms of treatment both magical and psychological, and I fear it may eventually grow into full-blown dementia._

_Allow me, Jaroo, to be the voice of reason and rationality. Calling upon my many years of experience as the head instructor of the arcane arts, I believe the cause of the iron plague to be a band of magical singing rabbits in league with the unholy forces of the Avariel, the abhorrent and repugnant race of winged elves whose total extermination would result in a net increase in happiness throughout the Realms…_

Eltan sighed. These were truly trying times indeed.

* * *

_The path ahead grows darker, far darker than I could have imagined. Through our travels we have learned that it is the Iron Throne, a thoroughly disreputable mercantile consortium in Baldur's Gate, who are behind the iron-weakening plague afflicting the Sword Coast. In a most devious display of misdirection, they have contrived events so that suspicion has fallen squarely upon the Zhentarim; that the Iron Throne does not fear reprisals from Zhentil Keep speaks to both their power and their colossal arrogance. I have also learned of an individual named "Sarevok" who occupies some position of authority, perhaps the highest, within the Iron Throne. I have forged a letter from one of his subordinates in the hopes that it shall sow dissent between them. As the letter was posted last eve, I expect it to reach its intended recipient within a few days._

_The most self-evident explanation for concocting this "iron plague" is so that the Iron Throne can achieve a near-total monopoly on the production of iron ore. Yet for reasons beyond explication I find this account of their motives unsatisfying. There is something they seek beyond mere monetary gain, something that I cannot help but feel is connected with my foster-father's murder. Perhaps he somehow got word of their plan, though how that could have happened within the confines of Candlekeep, I cannot say._

_Note: I experienced a most troubling occurrence last night. During a meeting with that most esteemed wizard Elminster I managed to acquire several fragments of a githyanki silver sword. As I was studying them, one of the shards accidentally slipped from my fingers and cut into the skin of my hand. But just as soon as I had finished cursing myself for my clumsiness the wound closed itself up right before my eyes. Such healing magic is but a trifle within the clerical domain, but as a student of the Art I have no ability to work those manner of spells. I can think of no explanation for this, and even my vast arcane knowledge is of no avail._

_Additional note: an astonishing increase in the frequency and intensity of dreams as of late. They are filled with the usual tiresome clichés: rivers of blood, mountains of skulls, ominous, threatening voices, that sort of thing. I find these sleep-visions more annoying than frightening, and I suspect that they serve as an allegory for the vulgar cynicism and gore-soaked violence that afflicts the literature of our troubled age._

_\- Your Adventuring Elf_

There was a loud knocking on the door, followed by Imoen's irritated voice. "Are you ready to go yet? What's taking so long?"

Talvi closed her journal. The group had had enough to gold to rent individual rooms at the Friendly Arm Inn, something that was normally reserved for travelling noblemen. There were a number of such persons wandering around the upper floors of the inn, all of whom looked at Talvi and her companions with barely-disguised contempt. She had hoped that one of them might have engaged her in conversation, if only to express his disdain towards the "dirty adventurers" whose presence he had to endure. Then she would have explained how his titles meant nothing to her, as an elf might see a human bloodline rise from barbarism to nobility and back to barbarism again in a single lifespan. Unfortunately none of them were willing to oblige her.

Imoen and the others were all waiting for her outside, and Talvi immediately noticed that Minsc had numerous cuts and bruises over his body. "Don't tell me you slept through that ruckus downstairs!" said Imoen.

"Why? What happened?"

"Minsc got into a fight with some riff-raff. He's lucky Dynaheir was there, otherwise the guards would have thrown him out."

The ranger of Rashemen crossed his arms, totally unapologetic. "The cowards dared to mock my hamster. I am _not_ sorry."

"Alas, restraint is not one of Minsc's virtues," Dynaheir added. "We must away ere we wear out our goodwill with the innkeeper."

Talvi must have slept for longer than she imagined, as it almost midday when they departed the Friendly Arm Inn. This, naturally, led to an upbraiding from Jaheira. "I sense a streak of laziness in you, child. Gorion was a man of action; you would do better to emulate him in this regard."

"I believe one should ease into the day," Talvi countered. "Leave this 'early to rise, early to toil' nonsense for the dwarves. If a task that could be done in one day takes four or five, well, what is the harm done?"

"That may be the elven perspective, but the world moves at a swifter pace. Slothfulness will not serve you."

For the next three hours they travelled westwards, through land that had remained largely untouched by the ravages of civilisation. The Cloakwood forest, from what Talvi had read back in Candlekeep, was a fearsome place, inhabited by all manner of wild beasts, giant spiders, and fearsome fey creatures. How much of it was true and how much was merely the expression of the in-born terror that humans felt towards the forest, Talvi could not say.

"I must say, these robes of mine are getting rather worn," she said to Imoen. "We must find a proper clothier the next time we are in a city. The process of obtaining clothing of the proper fit will be, I suspect, an ordeal. The clothiers who visited Candlekeep never had anything that fitted me; their robes were either too short or, if they were the correct length, they hung far too loosely."

Imoen couldn't resist the urge to tease. "It's 'cause you got a big rack for an elf."

"No, I do _not,_ " Talvi said angrily. "I assure you that I am no more or less buxom than any other of the Fair Folk. And besides, Imoen, you are not one to talk about choice in clothing. For one who imagines herself to be a thief skulking about the shadows you attire is entirely inappropriate."

"What? How?"

"That pinkish hue is hardly what one should wear if one wishes to disappear into the night, is it?"

"But it matches my hair!"

"Well, I'm just saying that if you want to be a thief you ought to dress the part."

Imoen came to a stop. "Oh, so now you're fine with me stealin' stuff? You were always criticising me for it before!"

"And you never listened to me once, did you? Since you seem to be intent on a life of larceny, I would suggest you dress in accordance with your chosen profession."

Khalid was aghast at what he was hearing. "You c-c-can't be serious! A life of c-c-crime is not what G-G-Gorion would have wanted!"

Imoen simply shrugged. "It's only a crime if you get caught."

With Jaheira urging the group onwards at hurried pace they reached the edge of the Cloakwood forest just before sundown. Unlike the Wood of Sharp Teeth, Cloakwood appeared distinctively unwelcoming. The trees grew tall and close together, creating the impression of a wall built to keep people out, and the forest itself was dark and threatening. There were no paths that they could see, no easy way through the woods, which meant nothing less than a hard slog through twisted branches and tangled roots.

"I got a bad feeling about this place, Talvi," Imoen said quietly.

"The archdruid of my circle dwells somewhere in these woods," Jaheira explained. "We did not part on good terms, and I cannot say if we will be welcomed."

"They aren't going to be hostile, are they?" Talvi asked.

"No, violence is not their way. But they have ways of barring our passage through Cloakwood, should they so desire."

"Don't forget the spiders," Imoen added. "I once read that this place is just full of big huge spiders!"

Khalid began quaking, his face pale. "S-s-spiders? Oh d-d-dear, I think I'll just g-g-go and wait b-b-back at the Friendly Arm Inn, if you don't m-m-mind..."

He turned around and was about to start walking away when Jaheira grabbed him by the arm. "You will go nowhere, Khalid!"

"B-b-but..."

"You'll come with us, or I swear you'll never hear the end of it!"

"Y-y-yes, dear."

* * *

"I bring troubling news from Tazok. It would seem his camp has been attacked."

Rieltar possessed that peculiar quality of making Sarevok's urge to kill him rise with every single word he uttered, even when the topic of conversation was something totally mundane. He spoke in that sneering, haughty tone so common amongst the highborn; Sarevok didn't know if he were actually a member of the nobility, but the man had all the unearned arrogance he typically associated with their kind.

"...and?"

Thaldorn answered for him. "Nothing was stolen, except the contents of a chest containing some incriminating correspondences with our operatives in the Cloakwood forest. This could seriously hinder our plans if someone were to present these documents to the Grand Dukes."

"Tazok had scores of men under his command. How were they overcome?"

For one brief instant Rieltar's self-important smirk vanished. "I'm not sure how to explain it, milord, but it would seem that Tazok's camp came under assault from a large horde of... _bears._ "

" _Bears?_ "

Thaldorn snickered. "When I heard the news, it was almost more than I could _bear..._ "

"Obviously some druidic magic was employed," Rieltar continued. "I'm afraid we know next to nothing about those responsible, though my suspicion lies with the Harpers."

"What he means to say," Thaldorn said, "is that we know _bear-ly_ anything."

Sarevok glowered at him. "This was the work of Gorion's ward."

"We have no proof of that," Rieltar answered curtly. "According to Tazok, Mulahey had apparently had grown dissatisfied with his lot and challenged Tazok's leadership. Naturally, Tazok had him killed. The disruption in our Nashkel operation is solely due to Mulahey's incompetence. Furthermore, the bounty hunters we dispatched to the mines did not report any sightings of Gorion's ward. In fact, their sole encounter was with an acting troupe from Silverymoon-"

Instinctively, Sarevok's right hand reached out for Rieltar's throat, and it took all of his willpower just to restrain himself. "That _was_ Gorion's ward, you fool! Did it not cross your mind that she might have deceived our agents?"

Thaldorn continued giggling like a child. "We can explain, if you'll just _bear_ with us..."

With extreme effort, Sarevok managed to ignore the simpering cretin. "I suggest you concern yourself with the day-to-day operations of this company, Rieltar, and leave the matter of these 'mercenaries' to me. I shall find Gorion's ward myself, and when I do..."

"...you'll kill her with your _bear_ hands?"

A split-second later Sarevok's hand was around Thaldorn's neck. He lifted him off the ground while the main struggled in vain, feeling a surge of murderous release as he slowly crushed the life out of him. This was what the blood demanded. The blood called, and he obeyed. Before Thaldorn could draw his last breath Sarevok swung him around and hurled him out the window, the glass shattering with a cacophonous crash. The wretch had just enough time to let out a scream of terror before his body violently impacted the cobblestones below.

He turned around to face Rieltar once again, who was now staring at him, slack-jawed. "As I was saying, I will find Gorion's ward and do what our mercenaries have thus far failed to accomplish. She most likely knows of our mine in Cloakwood; that is where I shall wait for her."

Rieltar said nothing, still too much in shock from Thaldorn's sudden defenstration. His time would come soon, Sarevok knew, though he would not have the luxury of a swift death.

* * *

The Cloakwood forest was a very ancient forest, that much was clear when Talvi first set foot in it. Here the trees grew tall, taller than the tallest spires of Candlekeep, and little of the evening light made its way down to the forest floor. There were no sounds of wildlife, not even the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves, and in this eerie silence even footfalls sounded deafening. Talvi had always felt that, as an elf, she would feel more at home in the wood than in other places, and yet Cloakwood was trying its utmost to challenge that assumption. She could not help but feel that her every step was being watched, and that sinister forces lurked just out of sight.

For the first time in as long as she could remember, Talvi did not feel the urge to throw off her clothes and frolic.

"Do you even know where you're going?" Imoen asked Jaheira, her voice sounding horribly loud in the stillness of the forest.

"Silence, child! There are creatures in these woods with bearing hearing than we."

What sort of creatures, Jaheira did not say, though Khalid looked more terrified now than he had before.

She had mentioned something about a circle of druids who dwelt in these parts, but so far they had seen not a single sign of habitation. It was a miracle that Jaheira could find her way in this abominable wood without any kind of path; Talvi wondered if this were merely a skill she had learned, or if it were actually some kind of druidic magic.

Even Minsc had become uncharacteristically quiet. "Yes, Boo, I agree...evil lurks within these woods. But it dares not show its face before _true_ heroes. Where evil doth stride, there stand Minsc and Boo, ready to strangle evil with its own entrails..."

Talvi spoke to Dynaheir in a whisper. "Have you ever considered getting him a spell of restoration?"

"The greatest clerics of my homeland have tried, and none have found success. It would seem that his...condition...is the will of the spirits."

It soon grew dark, and Talvi dreaded the thought of sleeping in this accursed wood. She whispered a prayer to Rillifane Rallathil, though she knew the Leaflord seldom interfered in worldly affairs.

"Wait, there is someone approaching," said Jaheira, coming to a sudden stop.

Their situation was unpleasantly reminiscent of Gorion's murder, Talvi thought, and she mentally prepared her most devastating spells. Minsc and Khalid drew their swords, while Imoen nocked an arrow on her shortbow.

There was a loud rustling from the undergrowth, and a dozen figures emerged from the darkness. They were druids, judging from their leather robes and generally unrefined appearance, but something told her they were not members of Jaheira's circle. They eyes bore hateful stares, and they looked quite prepared to inflict considerable violence upon the group.

A woman stepped forward, evidently the leader of this band, and Talvi noted to herself how utterly barbaric she looked, from the filthy animal hides she wore to the hideous raven tattoo over her left eye. A man stood beside her, holding a huge oaken club in his hand and staring at their group with a look of pure hatred.

"You display great courage in coming here, Jaheira," the man said, his voice harsh and raspy. "But like the others of your heretical sect, your wisdom is lacking. Did you think the Shadow Druids would let Seniyad's followers bring their vile taint to our lands?"

He waved his hands in a peculiar motion, and Talvi felt something wrap tightly and painfully around her ankles. When she looked down she saw roots emerging from the soil to her hold fast to the ground, and when she tried to free herself the roots only twisted tighter around her legs. Glancing to the left and right revealed that her companions were likewise held fast, and even Minsc was unable to free himself.

"Still as arrogant as you ever were, Amarande," Jaheira sneered. "We are here to investigate the Iron Throne; your misguided crusade against civilisation is of no concern to us."

"The Iron Throne? You are as great an evil as they, Jaheira, as are all of your circle. It is because of your kind that one atrocity after another is perpetrated against nature! The foul mire of 'civilisation' spreads like fire in dry grass, and it is with the likes of you that this mire begins."

"Jaheira, who are these knobheads?" Talvi said, continuing in her futile struggle to free herself. "They call themselves druids, but they seem more like bandits to me."

"That is more true than you realise. They strive against 'civilisation', but their numbers are too few for anything but harassing travellers."

This only served to further enrage Amarande. "Our numbers are far greater than you imagine, Jaheira. We are everywhere, from the tundra of Icewind Dale to the jungles of Chult! Soon nature shall reclaim her rightful place, and she shall have the respect she deserves!"

"Such brutal tendencies is a clear mark of your total emptiness of being," Talvi declared. "Completely lacking in self-knowledge, your identity is wholly negative – you define yourself not by what you are, but what you oppose. Hence your violent behaviour is nothing more than an expression of the yawning void within your soul. You would know this if you had read a book by any of the prominent philosophers who have come to the fore as of late."

Amarande's zeal was undiminished. "The existence of 'books' is an anathema to the Oakfather! The parchment and vellum used within them are the flayed hides of nature's creatures!"

Talvi could not conceal her disgust. "And those leather robes you're wearing…?"

"That animal offered itself up willingly!" He glanced to the woman beside him. "Now you understand, Faldorn, why we must be ever vigilant. We cannot let these people live to tell others of our order. Serve the will of the Oakfather, and rid of us these fools. Let their carcasses feed the earth!"

Minsc's hamster began squealing loudly. "Beware, evildoers!" he bellowed. "For you have earned the wrath of the only miniature giant space hamster in the Realms!"

"By the Oakfather!" cried one of the Shadow Druids. "What is this horrid affront to nature?"

"Those rodents are an invasive species!" another yelled. "Kill it before it gets loose!"

This was precisely the wrong thing to say. " _What?_ You _dare_ threaten my hamster? You are no friend of nature, and no friend of Minsc and Boo! _YAAARRRGGHHH!_ "

He tore free of the roots holding him and charged at Amarande, who had no time to raise his wooden club in defence before Minsc's sword separated his head from his body. The woman with the raven tattoo turned and fled, with the rest of the Shadow Druids following close behind. "Ha! Go on and run, cowards! Your shame shall sting more than the cut of my blade or the teeth of my hamster upon your eyeballs!"

To her immense relief Talvi felt the roots around her legs slip away. "It is as I expected: those 'Shadow Druids' were, if you'll excuse the pun, all bark and no bite," she said, trying not to look at Amarande's headless corpse. As distasteful as she found Minsc's berserker tendencies, she was forced to admit that it had proven useful on more than one occasion.

"We have not seen the last of them," cautioned Jaheira. "They are fanatics, and-"

There was the sound of someone else approaching from the woods. Everyone turned and readied their weapons, expecting another assault from the Shadow Druids. But the men who emerged from the undergrowth were decidedly less hostile in their demeanour, and Jaheira sheathed her blade the moment she saw them.

"I was wondering when you would make an appearance, Seniyad. A pity you didn't arrive sooner."

The man she was addressed reminded Talvi very much of Gorion in his appearance, with his long, white beard and stately posture. He wore a crown of antlers atop his head (she wasn't sure whether this looked regal or ridiculous), and carried a gnarled oaken staff that she guessed was some sort symbol of authority. Two other men stood with him, each one eyeing their group with suspicion.

"Your presence was felt the moment you entered these woods, Jaheira," Seniyad said, a note of a distrust in his voice. "I am not surprised to find you at the centre of this...commotion."

"Perhaps you might care to explain this schism within our circle? I was not aware of any discord within the hierarchy."

"There is a great deal that you are unaware of, Jaheira, and much has changed for the worse since you ill-advised leaving. But we can speak of this elsewhere; the Shadow Druids will return soon, and in greater number. Our camp is not far from here; I will not deny you hospitality, so long as your companions behave themselves."

Minsc looked down at his hamster. "Minsc and Boo both promise to be a perfect gentleman and gentlerodent. No, Boo, you will _not_ squirrel the nice druids' nuts away in your cheeks. Because you are _not_ a squirrel. No, I do not trust those bushy-tailed bastards..."

Seniyad stared at the ranger. "Excuse me, but are you talking to a hamster?"

"I am _speaking_ with the only miniature giant space hamster in the Realms! You should be in awe."

Talvi heard Seniyad whisper something to one of his companions. She couldn't make out exactly what he said, though she did catch the words "raving lunatic."

* * *

"M-m-message for you, sir. F-f-from D-D-Davaeorn, sir."

The page's fear was obvious, to the point where he seemed like he might soil himself at any moment. This pleased Sarevok. For too long he had been forced to deal with filth like Rieltar who always failed to show the proper amount of dread before him.

He snatched the scroll from the page and hurriedly broke the seal. While he despised all of his underlings, Sarevok held a special hatred for Davaeorn. The man was far too ambitious, a poor trait in a subordinate, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the wizard turned on him. Like all of his kind he assumed that magic could substitute for strength, and assumption they would hold right up until Sarevok drowned him in his own blood. That fool Gorion had made the mistake of thinking his spells would save him, and that pitiful whelp of his would soon follow in his footsteps.

At least that was what Sarevok told himself. In truth, his lack of success in slaying Gorion's ward was beginning to wear on his patience.

He unrolled the letter and began reading:

_Sarevok, Knobhead, Esq.:_

_Your stupidity and low character are the subject of vulgar comedies. Mere hours ago I received_ _by letter your_ _objections_ _regarding the quality of iron_ _that_ _has_ _been_ _shipped to Baldur's Gate_ _from our mines_ _. Were your pox-ridden brain in possession of more than the tiniest mote of intelligence, you might have realised that the iron you received was sent to you with my full knowledge that it lacked the necessary hardness for weaponsmithing._

_You might ask, you_ _klazomaniac zounderkite, why I have done this. Know that it was done as a means of testing the Iron Throne's ability_ _to produce quality steel from iron, a feat which, as any smith knows, is simply a matter of alloying it with carbon. That you are unable to grasp the difference between iron and steel – a very basic tenet of metallurgy – stands as firm proof of your boundless ineptitude. Had you spent less time trolling whorehouses and more time looking after your business concerns, I might have been spared your odious letters of complaint._

_It is patently obvious to me that there is nothing more to be gained_ _from my continued association with the Iron Throne, for it is a consortium consisting entirely of pure – if you'll excuse the pun – unalloyed stupidity. From this moment on, we shall be seeking other customers for the output of our mines. If you wish to dispute this decision, you may take up it with me personally._

_Plough your own mother,_

_Davaeorn_

Rage boiled up within the dark crevices of Sarevok's black heart. He crumpled the letter in his hand and angrily threw it across the room. "Find Rieltar," he growled at the page, who was now on the brink of sobbing in terror, "and tell him to prepare a scroll of 'teleport without error'..."


	12. Bad Blood

Chapter 12 – Bad Blood

* * *

_Davaeorn's built himself quite the little nest here, I see._

Of all the people Sarevok despised (a list that was very long indeed), he regarded wizards and sorcerers with bilious odium. They had their uses, of course, but without fail they were arrogant, pompous, and far too ambitious for their own good. Perhaps the common rabble might stand in awe of their spells, but strip away their magic and what was left but weak, feeble men? That was a lesson Gorion had learned far too late, and it was a lesson Davaeorn would be learning in short order.

He had transformed the lowest level of the Cloakwood mines into his own personal laboratory, with bookcases stuffed and overflowing with tomes of arcane lore. Like all wizards, Davaeorn was unable to live in anything but total opulence and self-indulgent luxury, and he had clearly striven to his utmost to turn this area of the mines into his own little version of the ducal palace in Baldur's Gate. Why was it, he thought, that men of strength and power chose to live lives of comfort and ease? Did they not understood that strength only came through struggle and hardship?

Sarevok shook his head. Now was time for action, not thinking. Shaking off the momentary disorientation that always followed a spell of teleportation, he strode into Davaeorn's inner sanctum, where the old wizard was busy poring over some tome or another.

He unsheathed the Sword of Chaos, a blade destined to shed blood whenever it was drawn. "Davaeorn!"

Slowly the old wizard turned to face him. With his dark hair, prominent nose, and sunken cheeks, he resembled less a man and more a grotesque union of human and buzzard. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You know why I'm here."

"No, as a matter of fact I do not. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me? But please, do it at a distance; the foul stench that surrounds you is quite unbearable."

The rage, the fury, the unquenchable surge of murderous intent was welling up inside him, begging for release. "Your lies are wasted on me, fool! Defend yourself if you will, you will never have a better occasion for it than now."

Davaeorn sighed. "I suppose you are here to punish me for some imagined affront to your fragile ego, or perchance your mind has finally slipped free from the bonds of sanity. Attack me if you are so inclined; it is, as they say, your funeral."

With a quick wave of his hand Davaeorn vanished with a flash of light. Sarevok spun around, just in time to see a bolt of lightning flying towards him from the other side of the room. Yet he did not flinch or make any effort to avoid the deadly stream of electricity, which would have reduced any other man to ashes.

The lightning bolt struck him right in the middle of chest and then fizzled out completely, having been absorbed by his armour. Sarevok laughed.

"Did you think I would come here unprepared? Cast all the spells you want, it will not save you in the end."

Slowly he walked across the room, dragging the tip of his sword along the ground. Davaeorn was uttering some arcane invocation, articulating his arms to shape and manipulate the eldritch energies of the Weave. A ball of fire arced through the air and exploded a scant few feet in front of Sarevok, sending the contents of the room flying in all directions and turning the air around him in a raging inferno. Yet he felt nothing but a gentle breeze, his armour snuffing out the spell's potency like water to a candle.

He continued striding towards Davaeorn, laughing to himself. This was how he pictured the inevitable confrontation with Gorion's ward, though her death would bring far more satisfaction than this wizened old fool.

Just as he closed to within striking distance Davaeorn vanished once again, reappearing on the other side of the room. He let loose with another fireball, the force of the explosion causing a shower of of dirt and rock to fall from the ceiling. "Your spells cannot last forever, Davaeorn," he growled. "Draw your blade, if you have one, and fight me like a man. I will grant you a swift death if your pathetic flailing is sufficiently amusing."

"No, I think it is you who will be doing the dying," he retorted. "My spells have destabilised the entire mine. It will collapse any second now. I hope you have a second scroll of teleportation with you, otherwise you are going to be trapped here for a very long time."

With that he waved his hand and disappeared, this time for good. The ground began shaking beneath Sarevok's feet, while more dirt and gravel started raining down on his head. He did indeed have another scroll of teleportation, but that did not remove the uncontrollable fury that now overwhelmed him.

_Failure...nothing but failure!_ He had failed to kill Davaeorn, just as he had failed to kill Gorion's ward again and again. How was it possible? How was it that he, a child of Bhaal, could fail in the act of murder so many times?

Sarevok took the crumpled up teleportation scroll from inside his armour. From this day forth there would be no more mistakes, no more failures.

* * *

Talvi's feet were aching terribly by the time they reached the druids' camp, and she prayed to the gods that they would have some wine to spare. Through the dim torchlight she spied a great henge surrounding the camp, still under construction as evidenced by the massive stone slabs sitting atop log tracks. What purpose the henge served, whether it was magical or mundane, she did not know, and she was too tired to bother asking any of the druids.

She sat down on a log by the fire, the only source of illumination in the dark forest. In its flickering light the druids took on a sinister appearance, with dark shadows dancing across their faces. Though Jaheira and Seniyad had said nothing to each other since their encounter, Talvi could sense the animosity between them. It was clear that the two had not parted on the friendliest of terms, though trying to get the story of Jaheira would be a fool's errand, Talvi knew.

"You have chosen a bad time to return to us, Jaheira," said Seniyad. "The Iron Throne has reopened the old dwarven mine to the north, and the Shadow Druids have grown increasingly violent. If you came here in search of a warm welcome, then I'm afraid we have none to offer."

"The Iron Throne is why we are here," Jaheira explained. "I am sure you have heard of the 'iron plague' afflicting the Sword Coast. Well, we have ample evidence that the Iron Throne is behind it, either for the purpose of monetary gain or something else."

Seniyad narrowed his eyes. "And this 'quest' of yours, are you undertaking it as a druid, or as a Harper?" He spoke that last word as if it were synonymous with "idiot."

"Does it matter?"

"You are in a double trust, Jaheira. You cannot serve both the balance and the Harpers. There will come a time when you will have to choose one side or another."

"Perhaps. But not today."

Their conversation carried on in this way for a while, though Talvi did not pay any attention to it. "I say, you wouldn't happen to have any wine with you, would you?" she asked Seniyad after growing tired of his bickering with Jaheira. "We've spent the whole day travelling, and our encounter with those ratbag fustilugs you call 'Shadow Druids' has left our nerves quite shaken." That last point wasn't quite true, but truth took a back seat to obtaining drink. "I have heard that the amongst the druidic circles of Faerûn there is a certain variety of spiced wine that is said to be quite exquisite, whose flavour is like that of a thousand pixies dancing upon the tongue."

Jaheira gave her a scolding look, but Seniyad looked quite buoyed by Talvi's request. "Ah yes, the wine." He gestured to one of his fellow druids. "Bring out the cups and wineskins! Tonight we drink ourselves to the edge of oblivion!"

"Seniyad, we do that _every_ night," the druid replied.

"Yes, but tonight we have guests!"

Jaheira just sighed. "I see little has changed in this circle."

"Oh come now, Jaheira, there's no need to be uptight. It saddens me that you still scorn the more... _festive..._ aspects of druidry, like the skyclad rituals."

"What are the 'skyclad rituals?'' Talvi asked.

"Perhaps 'ritual' is a bit too far formal. It involves nothing more than getting ourselves thoroughly merry with wine and mead, then throwing off our clothes and dancing in the woods like maniacs."

Talvi was overwhelmed with a blissful feeling of validation. "Now here is a man who understands! Obviously one cannot be in communion with nature whilst clad in the vestments of artificiality. Now let us pass around the wine!"

As the wineskins were brought forth and wooden cups passed around, Jaheira continued to weigh invective against such frivolity. "I do not oppose these 'festivities,' as you call them, but rather the amount of time you devote to them. I would rather not have people getting the impression that serving the balance is some kind of drunken orgy."

"'Orgy...' you say that as though it were a _bad_ thing! That is what the Shadow Druids thought, you know. They considered us 'decadent' and 'depraved;' that we were not vigilant enough in our efforts to preserve the balance. Well fie on them, I say! Let them wallow in their miserable, joyless existence."

Jaheira remained unmoved. "The last time this circle partook in the 'skyclad rituals,' Seniyad, someone accidentally knocked down a hornets' nest, and I had to spent the greater part of the day making balms to soothe their stings."

He just shrugged. "There's always some fool that goes and ruins everything. Why, just last year we all decided to dress up as woodwoses and dance the night away, and it was all going so splendidly until someone brought a pair of lit torches into our midst and set us all on fire. Aye, that was a black day."

Talvi was paying little attention to their argument, instead focussing on the cup of wine in her hands. She carefully inhaled its aroma, taking careful note of its bouquet. "Notes of raisins, cinnamon, with just a hint of vanilla," she declared. After raising the cup to her lips and admitting the scarlet liquid into her mouth, she continued her florid description. "Herbaceous, with just a hint of black cherry, plum, effervescing into an oaky splendour with abundant transparency. The finish is, as I would expect, strikingly fresh and expressive; a lively moral injunction against the hypocrisy and dreariness of so-called 'civilisation.' I dare say this wine would find little purchase within the great cities of the Sword Coast, for they would surely find it far too wild and unfettered for their dulled palates."

Seniyad looked at her as though she were mad. "And who are you, exactly?"

Jaheira answered for her. "The ward of Gorion, an old colleague of mine who was murdered some days ago. I suspect his killing is connected with the iron plague, though we have no proof."

"And of _course_ she just ignores me," Imoen whispered to Talvi. "The way she talks you'd think Gorion only ever had one ward!"

"More Harper business, I assume," Seniyad said with disdain.

Talvi found herself unexpectedly angered by his words. "I won't hear a single slight on my foster-father! He was a great man, a learned sage, and a wizard of no middling skill. His contributions to the field of magical research are too numerous to name."

"I meant no disrespect, but we druids and the Harpers have had many... _disagreements..._ over the years. We both seek to maintain the balance, but we cannot sanction their bloody ways."

Jaheira snorted in disgust. "You speak as though we were little more than assassins and murderers. I should not have to remind you that many druids serve within our ranks, and they find no conflict between the two paths."

Talvi wasn't going to have any more of this irksome arguing. "Excuse me, but drink and dispute make poor copesmates. I would have no more bickering! Let us have our wine and speak only joyous words – that is what Lady Goldheart commands!"

* * *

"The entire mine? _Destroyed?_ "

Rieltar fought to keep his voice down. Though the Elfsong Tavern was typically frequented by the less-reputable members of society, one never knew just who, exactly, might be listening. The Iron Throne had many enemies (it was a fundamental truth that one couldn't accomplish _anything_ in life without making enemies) who would surely take advantage of any apparent divisions within their ranks. Fortunately, the owner of the Elfsong Tavern understood the need for privacy, and provided its guests with tables that could be curtained off from the rest of the room.

"I did not remain in the area to see if that were the case," Davaeorn said snidely, "but given its proximity to the underground river it's likely the collapse has flooded all of the lower levels of the mine." He reclined in his chair, given Rieltar a smug look. "Your 'son' has developed quite a streak of paranoia as of late. He also seems quite averse to regular bathing, as evidenced by the putrid odour that surrounds him like a cloud. You should know, Rieltar, that a fear of water and violent, irrational behaviour are the classic signs of rabies. Has Sarevok been bitten by any mad dogs as of late? I'm afraid to say that when symptoms begin to show it is already too late for the afflicted."

_He's enjoying this,_ Rieltar thought. Davaeorn had done little to conceal his hatred of Sarevok since the start of his involvement with the Iron Throne, and it was only a matter of time before the two came to blows. "I should never have given him those teleportation scrolls. When he said that he had some 'business' to attend to at the mines I had no idea that _this_ was what he intended!"

Davaeorn laughed. "How naive can you be, Rieltar? Whatever possessed you to adopt that... _thing..._ as your son? You hardly strike me as the sentimental type."

He took a hefty swig from his tankard. "It was not for any 'sentimental' reasons, I assure you. I adopted Sarevok because I saw in the boy a certain strength – a strength that I had the power to shape and direct as I saw fit. And how else was I to ensure the continuation of my legacy? My wife was barren and an unfaithful harlot besides. When I strangled the life out of her I made Sarevok stand witness, so that he would know his fate should he ever prove disloyal."

"And yet it seems your 'son' has gotten away from you, hasn't he?"

"To put it lightly. Everything we have done has been to establish the Iron Throne as the pre-eminent trading house on the Sword Coast. But Sarevok shows no interest in running the company or any of its affairs. What's worse, he has made no effort to soothe tensions with Amn; in fact, he seems to almost _welcome_ conflict with them! When I tried explaining to him that war would be disastrous to our business interests he simply dismissed my concerns with barely a word."

"Do you not recognise the symbol on his armour?" Davaeorn asked, his smugness undiminished. "It is the symbol of Bhaal, the dead god of murder. Isn't it obvious that his only aim is only chaos and mayhem? He is little more than an animal. Honestly, Rieltar, you would not be running into these kinds of problems if you had simply placed _me_ in charge of this whole operation."

"Well, we have stockpiled enough iron to supply the armies of Baldur's Gate, so the loss of Cloakwood mine will not substantially interfere with our plan. But I think it is time for Sarevok's involvement with Iron Throne to come to an end."

"Yes, rabid dogs are usually put down, are they not?"

Rieltar leaned in close, keeping his voice low. "Next tenday I will be meeting with members of the Knights of the Shield at Candlekeep. Our discussion will centre on the future of the Iron Throne, and it goes without saying that Sarevok will not be invited. I am sure that, together, we will be able to find some means of 'removing' Sarevok from his present position."

"And what of this 'ward of Gorion' that he mentions so often?"

"She is nothing more than elven girl from Candlekeep that Sarevok has developed a peculiar fixation on. I suspect this is another example of his paranoid tendencies."

"There is something you should know," said Davaeorn. "If you plan to have Sarevok killed, do not bother using spells against him; his armour has some enchantment placed upon it that resists most forms of offensive magic. Of course, it is unlikely that it will do much to prevent him from being torn limb from limb by a baatezu...just to give you a suggestion."

"I will take it under advisement."

Davaeorn suddenly became uncharacteristically excited. "Or perhaps you might consider having him thrown into an enormous vat of acid? I do so enjoy the screaming and thrashing about of people killed in such a manner, though the smell of their liquefied carcasses does tend to linger in the air for a bit too long. If that does not suit your fancy, I would suggest having him set on fire and then exploded. If the stench of burning flesh offends you, then you might consider having him tossed into an enormous meat grinder – I believe the Host Tower of the Arcane in Luskan possesses such a device – and then feeding his emulsified remains to the hounds. Having him hanged, drawn, and quartered is always an option, if a bit cliché."

"You disturb me."

"Now Rieltar, we are both practitioners of the Art, and I think we should abjure the absurd notion that the study of magic is for any purpose but finding new and exciting ways to kill people. What, do you suppose, was going through the mind of the man who first created the spell of 'Burning Hands?' 'Here is a man that I have taken a great disliking to,' he thought, 'and I very much wish that he were _on fire._ But he is standing over there and I am over here, so how then might I set him alight? Clearly, the answer is to contrive a spell that will effect the transfer of candescence from me to him.' I believe that similar modes of thinking underlies all advances in magical study. Let acolytes of the Power have their healing spells and cantrips; a true student of the Art has no other aim or goal but to unearth new methods of death."

_Now he's starting to sound like Sarevok,_ Rieltar thought. "I disagree. Magic ought to serve one end, and one end only: the relentless pursuit of wealth. If one has an uncommon talent or ability, why should he waste his gift toiling for the 'common good' of the rabble, who will never appreciate him? He ought to instead offer his services only to those who can afford them."

"And if one were in the business of killing people," Davaeorn added, "one could reconcile these two points of view quite marvellously. Do you know that there is great demand amongst necromancers for cadavers to use in their studies? I suspect there is a great deal of coin to be made in the creation of new corpses. There is a man in this city named Arkion that I consider a good friend of mine, and I financed my magical studies by providing him with fresh bodies for his research. He expected me to fetch them from graveyards or crypts or the like, but I found it much more expedient to just murder people instead. The Flaming Fist even had a name for me - ' _The Dockside Disemboweler' -_ a wholly inappropriate epithet, if you ask me, as I only ever disembowelled four or five individuals."

Rieltar stood up, not wishing to continue this conversation any further. "All right, that's quite enough. Remember our meeting at Candlekeep, and do try to keep your murderous inclinations under control. Sarevok's bloodthirstiness has caused us no end of trouble, and we don't need more of it from you."

"I make no promises."

* * *

"The entire mine? _Destroyed?_ "

"Davaeorn betrayed us, and I sought to pass sentence for his treachery. Blame him for the destruction of the mine, not me."

Winski shook his head. "You hear, but you do not _listen._ Since the beginning I have preached restraint, and each time my counsel went unheeded. I told you to ignore Gorion's ward, but you ignored me. I told you that throwing people off the roof of the Iron Throne headquarters would only invite unwanted scrutiny, but you ignored me. I told you that putting the symbol of Bhaal on your armour was a bad idea, but you ignored me. And now you've gone and destroyed the only functioning iron mine in the Grand Duchy of Baldur's Gate."

"Our reserves of iron ore will be enough to placate the Grand Dukes."

"That is not the point!" Winski spat. "You strut about wearing the symbol of Bhaal, and your behaviour as of late has been nothing if not murderous. Since no one in their right mind would worship a dead power, what conclusion are people going to draw? How long will it be before someone realises that you are a child of Bhaal?"

In truth Sarevok was not listening, for there was something else on his mind. "For the past three nights I have had the same dream," he began, staring at the rows upon rows of skulls he had affixed the walls of his bedchamber. "I stand before my father, who is seated on a throne of brass atop a mountain of skulls. Behind me are the fields of dead I have left, and yet he remains unmoved. He fixes his eyes upon me and says only ' _Thou hast done nothing.'_ I speak of the carnage I have wrought, all the murders I have done in his name, all the rituals I have performed, and still he says ' _Thou has_ _t_ _done nothing._ ' Until now I have never had cause to doubt myself, but now..."

Winski had no sympathy to offer. "If a mere dream can unsettle you so, perhaps you are right to doubt yourself."

_A lesser man I would have slain for such a remark,_ he thought. The question of whether or not he would have Winski killed after his ascension had been on his mind for some time now. No doubt the man hoped to obtain some measure of immortality by going down in history as the man who had helped the new Lord of Murder achieve apotheosis, but the last thing Sarevok wanted was for people to think that he had needed any kind of "help" fulfilling his destiny.

"Bhaal's brood number in the hundreds, if not thousands, and I wonder to myself what part they shall play after I ascend. The prophecies say nothing of what shall become of their divine essence once the new Lord of Murder is born unto the Realms. It speaks only of the deaths they shall wreak, and how it shall bring about the return of the father. What a fool I am to rely on the vague words of these long dead, brain-addled imbeciles!"

It was a rare thing for Sarevok to feel fear, but at that instant he was seized with something that chilled him to the bone. It was a momentary brush with self-reflection, a question of purpose. What if his interpretation of the prophecies were wrong? What if all he had done had been for naught?

But his introspection lasted only for a second or two. Doubt would not serve him now. He was knee deep in the dead; to go back now would be harder than going forward.

"There is another matter," Sarevok continued. "My worldly father is becoming an... _impediment..._ to our efforts. He hinders every one of my attempts to escalate hostilities with Amn, and I fear he may be close to discovering my lineage."

"I can't possibly imagine why _that_ might be..."

He ignored Winski's sarcastic remark. "In the next tenday he will be meeting with the Knights of the Shield at Candlekeep, and I am sure that they plan to remove me from power. If I can manoeuvre Gorion's ward to the library fortress, I could arrange Rieltar's demise so that blame falls upon her."

"I see my earlier counsel has fallen on deaf ears. If you are determined to pursue this obsession of yours, I am in no position to stop you. You seem driven to folly like a moth to a flame, and-"

There was a sound from his bed as Tamoko awoke. "Is that Kara-Turan wench of yours still alive?" Winski sneered. "I'm surprised you haven't yet murdered her in a fit of rage."

Winski turned and exited the room, leaving Sarevok alone with his lover, or more accurately, his soon-to-be-former lover. Tamoko was beginning to bore him, and the pleasures of the flesh no longer held any appeal.

"Why are you still here?"

She threw off the bedsheets, revealing her naked body. "I want you to forget this mad quest of yours!" she cried. "Come away with me, to Kara-Tur. It's not too late to leave this place behind. We can start a new life together, somewhere where we no one knows us."

At one point seeing this woman undressed might have stirred some feeling of lust within him, but that time had long since passed. "Leave? When my destiny as at hand? All that rice wine must have addled your brain, Tamoko."

"Destiny? The only destiny that awaits you is death! You've read the prophecies wrong! Bhaal never intended anyone to replace him!"

He turned away, appalled at her hysterics. "Cease your babbling, woman, before I have you thrown out the window like all the others who displeased me."

"Do you think Bhaal would allow anyone to usurp his legacy? Gods do not share their power willingly!"

The very last thing he wanted was a theological argument with her. "I do not wish to _restore_ his power, only to _raise_ it! The slaughter I shall bring to the Sword Coast will prove me as the worthy successor the power he so foolishly lost!" He spoke those words as much to convince as himself as Tamoko, and once more his doubts came rushing back. "Dress yourself and get out. I will not suffer your presence any longer."

She looked hurt, on the verge of tears, and this outward display of emotion disgusted him. "Then you...you feel nothing for me?"

"Do you think," he growled, "that a god would care at all for trifles such as you?"

Tamoko hurriedly got dressed and left without a word, but the doubt she'd sewn in Sarevok's mind lingered on. He paced about his bedchamber for some time, repeating the prophecies of Alaundo to himself until they seemed less like prophecies and more like the mantra of a madman. How he hated these "sages" and "prophets" who spoke in mindless riddles and metaphors! His first act as the Lord of Murder would be to burn Candlekeep to the ground and desecrate thoroughly Alaundo's remains.

_I should have not have stopped with Gorion. I should have stormed the gates of the damnable fortress and left those cursed monks drowning in_ _their own blood!_

He calmed himself with the thought of Rieltar's forthcoming demise. Though he wanted nothing more than to do the deed himself, the task would fall to the doppelgängers. All that remained was to decide the manner of death.

When Sarevok was but a child, his adoptive father had made him watch as he strangled his mother with a garrotte. The message was clear: betray me, and this too shall be your fate.

It was a lesson he had learned well.

* * *

"The entire mine? _Destroyed?_ "

"Our scouts reported the Iron Throne was in a great hurry to leave the area. Once it was safe to approach, we entered the topmost level of the mine. The whole place is completely flooded, Seniyad, though I can't say I'm surprised. Building a mine that close to an underground river was foolish."

At once Talvi sprang to her feet, immensely proud of herself. "Ha! I knew my plan would succeed!" She spent the next few seconds taking in the puzzled expressions on her companion's faces. "In the bandits' camp I came across a correspondence between Tazok, the bandits' bossman, and someone named Davaeorn, who was in charge of the mines. One of the letters indicated that Davaeorn was quite displeased with someone named Sarevok, apparently a figure of great importance within the Iron Throne, and so I forged a highly inflammatory letter from the latter to the former. I'm guessing this Sarevok fellow, in a fit of rage, thoroughly upended the mine's operation."

Jaheira looked at her with a mixture of surprise and irritation. "And why, child, did you not tell us about this letter earlier?"

Talvi shrugged. "It didn't seem important at the time. At any rate, we have disrupted the Iron Throne's attempt at gaining a monopoly on iron ore – for am I certain now that that is their goal – and all that remains is to inform the Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gates of their treachery."

"Aww, you mean we came all the way out here for _nothing?_ " Imoen whined.

"Come now, we are not far off from the road to Baldur's Gate. And by travelling through the woods we have likely avoided the bandits and brigands lurking along the Coast Way."

She was eager to begin their journey, not only so that they would reach the city before nightfall, but to take her mind off the terrible dream she had experienced sleeping beneath the stars last night. In this dream she was once more a child of only a few years, standing before her mother Suvi, who was in the midst of giving her the jewelled pendant that Talvi had never let leave her neck. All of a sudden someone grabbed her and began pulling her away, and despite her efforts she could not break free of her assailants' grasp. They began taking her away, and she cried out in vain as the image of her mother slowly faded into darkness. She could not say if this dream were nothing more than a flight of fancy or a long-buried recollection, but she was sure now, beyond any spectre of a doubt, that she had been forcefully taken from her mother, and that the woman was still alive someone.

As she dwelt on the dream, Talvi began to imagine other family members that might be scattered across Faerûn. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents...perhaps there existed a great Korpela dynasty that she was yet unaware of, all of whom were waiting for the return of their lost child…

Seniyad's voice jarred her from her thoughts. "I would speak with you, in private."

"About what?"

"Come with me."

Talvi followed him into his tent, which was presently occupied by his animal companion, a three-toed sloth that was clinging to one of the tent poles. It was a ridiculous-looking creature, resembling, in her eyes, a sort of shrunken bear with eerily-elongated limbs. The sloth looked down at her from its perch with an unsettling grin that one normally associated with dangerous drifters and vagabonds.

"You are Jaheira's ward, I take it?" he asked, his voice a mixture of hostility and suspicion.

"She seems to have placed herself in that position, yes."

"How much has she told you of the Harpers?"

Talvi did not like where this line of questioning was headed. "Very little, I'm afraid."

"I am not surprised. Very well, I shall be blunt: I do not trust that organisation, and you should be wary of any attempt by Jaheira to indoctrinate you."

" _Indoctrinate_ me?"

"The Harpers view the world much as a paladin does," Seniyad explained. "They see everything as black and white, a perpetual struggle between Good and Evil. But you will find, young elf, that the world rarely makes things so simple for us. There are many powerful forces at work shaping the Realms, and we druids do what we must to keep them in balance. To think solely in terms of black and white is to lose sight of the balance, which can only leaded to fanaticism and zealotry."

"I think you misunderstand the Harpers. They were founded on elven values, and we elves, with our lengthy lifespans, understand intuitively the moral complexity of the world. I highly recommend reading _The Phenomenology of Morality_ by the great elven philosopher Andrathath Virzana or, should his prose prove too impenetrable, the collected works of Imizael Daefaren ought to provide a suitable introduction to elven philosophy, though it must be read, of course, in the original language in order to fully comprehend its nuances."

Rather than instructing him, her words only confused him. "Ehm...yes. Look, just keep an eye on Jaheira, will you? She is both a druid and a Harper, but I know that she will not be able to walk both paths forever. I only hope that, when the time comes, she will choose the right path."

As if Jaheira and Seniyad's mutual dislike was not clear enough, the two parted without saying so much as a word to one another. And as soon as they were out of sight of the druid camp, Talvi immediately revealed to Jaheira the contents of her prior conversation. "Seniyad asked that I be wary of any attempt on your part to 'indoctrinate' me," she said. "He sounded as though as he holds you and the Harpers in scant regard."

"A prejudice has never been able to see past," Jaheira answered. "Seniyad is a good man, but he fears that which he does not know, and he knows little of the Harpers. I have no intention of 'indoctrinating' you; whether or not you choose to follow in Gorion's footsteps is your choice alone. It is said that Harpers are not made, but born; that they are merely acknowledged when they join."

Their journey eastwards through the Cloakwood Forest proved uneventful, and it was near eventide when they reached the mighty bridge spanning the Chionthar river. "Wyrm's Crossing" they called it, and given its size Talvi could easily imagine a dragon fitting comfortably within its span. Beyond lay the great walled city of Baldur's Gate, the largest city between Neverwinter and Athkatla, and even from a distance she could see the towers and spires that defined the city's skyline.

"Wow, Baldur's Gate!" Imoen exclaimed, gazing across the bridge with awe. "I never thought I'd actually see the place! Gorion always promised he'd take me there some day, but he never did!"

The city grew in size as the group strode across the bridge, making Candlekeep seem positively puny in comparison. She had read numerous travellers' accounts of the city, even ones from disreputable authors like Volo, yet none of them could convey the sheer size of it. Glancing at her companions, Talvi saw that only she and Imoen were looking at the city with anticipation. Jaheira and Dynaheir regarded it with slight but noticeable expressions of disgust, while Minsc was engaged in a quiet but excited conversation with his hamster. Khalid was nervous, but that was apropos of nothing, as Khalid was _always_ nervous about something or other.

_How many people live_ _here_ _?_ Talvi wondered. _Thousands? Tens of thousands?_ Whatever the exact number, one could _smell_ the sheer mass of humanity crowded behind the city walls. It was the distinctive scent of chimney smoke, effluent, and miasma that was particularly pungent to her elven senses.

Talvi was distinctly aware that, by passing through the city gates, she had crossed a crucial threshold in her life. This was as far from Candlekeep as she had ever been, and though she was loath to admit it to herself, something told her that there would be no going back to her old home. Perhaps it was for the best – a sedentary lifestyle was hardly in accordance with moon elf psychology – but she could not help but feel that she had lost something important, something that she would never get back.

Though the cityscape seemed to stretch on forever, like a vast forest of wood and stone, there were three building that stood out amongst the rest. To the south-west was a colossal grey tower, which looked vaguely sinister against the evening sky, while to the north she spied the high, square turrets of the ducal palace. What caught her eye, however, was a tall, reddish pagoda a little bit further north. It stood a hair higher than the ducal palace, and given its nearness to the palace Talvi could only assume it had been constructed as a statement establishing the enormous ego of the builder.

Past the gateway was a plaza, surrounded by all manner of stone and timber framed buildings arranged, as per the usual human fashion, without any sense of order or aesthetics whatsoever. A fountain stood in the middle of the plaza, a pair of dogs busily drinking from its waters, and around it swarmed a tremendous throng of people. A few turned and looked her way – a golden-haired elf with a wreath in her hair being quite an unusual sight around these parts – but no one paid her or her group much attention.

There was, however, one individual who had taken notice of her arrival. It was the familiar red-robed, pointy-hatted silhouette of Elminster, whose arrival was so fortuitous in its timing that he must have been spying on them. He approached them, as his was his wont, in a cloud of smoke, and despite her best efforts Talvi's keen elven nose could not ascertain what particular herb (or herbs) were presently stuffed into his pipe.

"Ah, 'tis good to see thee again, young one. What a tremendous happenstance, that we should meet in this time and place."

"Somehow I don't think this meeting was a coincidence."

He laughed. "I see thou hast figured this old man out quite completely. I knew thou wouldst pass through these gates eventually, 'twas only the hour that needed determining. It was very clever of thee, what thou hast done with the mine in the Cloakwood. I have always said that the pen doth strike harder than the sword, though my words oft go unheeded."

"This is silly! One cannot smite evil with a pen!" Minsc cried, before his hamster started squeaking loudly. "Hmm, what's that, Boo? Yes, you _could_ use a pen to stab evil in the eyes, and then evil would most surely be smitten..."

Talvi was about to ask how Elminster knew about this, but she would be surprised if there were something happening the Realms that he _wasn't_ aware of. "Have you had any more trouble with the githyanki?"

"Nothing since we last did meet, though doubtless they shall return. But I am sure their pestering doth pale in comparison to what thou hast felt, both from others and from thyself."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she asked, frowning.

Elminster lowered voice, a struck a tone of utmost seriousness. "I mean that there is bad blood within thee, and thy lineage is more difficult to escape than most. I have no doubt that Gorion did his best to teach thee well and true; it was his hope that thy upbringing in Candlekeep would better prepare thee for the trials thou shalt face."

Talvi's face flushed with anger. "Why must you be so elusive? What is this 'bad blood' you speak of? You aren't casting aspersions on my mother, are you? Speak plainly!"

"I agree," Jaheira said. "Now is not the time for riddles and games, Elminster, no matter how much they amuse you."

"There are some things that one ought to discover by oneself, and I shall speak no more of this. I will, however, often thee this one suggestion: get thee hence to Scar of the Flaming Fist. He is a man good and trustworthy, and I shall say the same for Duke Eltan. I take my leave, and fare thee well."

Elminster exhaled a cloud of smoke before wandering back into the crowd, none of whom took any notice of this strange old man in their midst.

"What an intolerable man," Talvi pouted. "He cannot say anything without being cryptic, and I do wish he'd abandon that archaic speaking pattern of his." She turned to Jaheira. "You don't know what he meant by 'bad blood,' do you?"

"No, I do not, nor did Gorion ever speak of such a thing. I share your frustration with Elminster; he and I have had many arguments in the past regarding his...enigmatic...ways."

"He's just an old fiddle-faddle, Talvi," Imoen assured her. "Don't pay any attention to what he says. He's gone and smoked himself crazy, he has."

But Talvi was not so sure.

* * *

_This damn job will be the death of me!_

If he had known how much stress being the headmaster of the Neverwinter Academy would entail, Alerio would never have taken the position. This day had begun on a bad note, as a large fire had broken out in one of the alchemical laboratories. The culprit was, of course, that idiot girl Qara, who had made the mistake of bringing two hypergolic compounds into contact with one another.

And now was he was being pestered by Sir Nevalle, a man whose very presence irked him. The man was, in Alerio's eyes, the most manifest embodiment of the government of Neverwinter, and if there was one thing Alerio hated it was government meddling. They were always moaning and groaning about the ground-breaking research that went on in the Academy, rattling off the same, tired complaints about how _unethical_ and _dangerous_ his methods were. Well, he figured, one couldn't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, to use an old cliché, and one couldn't make breakthroughs in magical research without the reckless endangerment of students' lives. "And besides, I only experiment on _under-performing_ pupils," was his usual defence. "It's a great motivator to focus on their studies."

"Lord Nasher wants to know how your research into the 'iron plague' is going."

"Tell Lord Nasher," Alerio began, "that I have identified both the cause and the cure. The cause is bards, and the cure, or more precisely the necessary preventative measure, is to have every bard in Neverwinter rounded up and killed. Once that is done, their bodies must be burned to ashes, and the ashes scattered into the ocean."

Nevalle was taken aback. " _What?_ "

"Allow me to explain," he said, picking up a large, green gem that rested atop his desk. "Inside this gem is a soul of a bard." Alerio raised a hand in order to ward off any potential objections. "Do _not_ ask how I acquired it. I will only state that it was obtained in full compliance, more or less, with the spirit of an extremely liberal interpretation of the laws of Neverwinter. Now, as an experiment, I placed this gem inside a sealed box with this dagger, here." He then held up a short, battered blade that had been sitting next to the gem. "Notice the obvious corrosion in the metal. From this we can draw only one conclusion: that the soul of the bard was so vile, so utterly corrupt and debased, that it tainted the metal, rendering it worthless. Now imagine what effect a whole population of bards suffusing an entire city would have. That is your answer for Lord Nasher."

"Headmaster, this looks like simple rust to me."

"It is _not_ rust!" Alerio protested. "It might _look_ like rust to an ignorant observer, but trust me, the corrosion occurred as a direct result of the blade's proximity to a bardic soul. My conclusion is perfectly logical, rational, and reasonable. You cannot argue with it, unless you were thoroughly _illogical, irrational,_ and _unreasonable._ And you _are_ none of those things, are you, Sir Nevalle?"

"Lord Nasher is not going have to every bard in Neverwinter rounded up and put to death, headmaster."

"Well then, if the swords and spears of the City Watch start falling apart we'll know whom to blame, eh?"

Nevalle stood up. "I'm going to see what the other professors have to say about this. Maybe _they_ can give me the answers Lord Nasher seeks."

" _Pfft!_ They are all boobies and simpletons. No understanding of the scientific method at all."

The second Sir Nevalle left his office Alerio yanked one of the desk drawers open and withdrew a flask of fortified wine. Sensing that the embrace of total drunkenness was the only way to forestall an inevitable attack of the nerves, he began chugging the wine with great gusto.

Just as he was about to return the bottle to its hiding place his eyes fell upon a rolled-up scrap of parchment sitting on the bottom of the drawer. Curious, he reached down and took it into his hands, noticing that it was quite old. He recalled that some twenty-five years ago, back when he was teaching an introductory astronomy course, one of his students had written him a rather incendiary missive regarding his pedagogical abilities. The handwriting was utterly exquisite, belying the acidic tone of the letter itself:

_Dear Alerio, Fopdoodlius Maximus, Supreme Potentate of Fishmongers, Bawds, Chancred Lechers, Leaping Houses, Etc._

_Your total ignorance of that which your profess to teach merits nothing less than a thorough flaying. What the hell kind of astronomer are you? That you insist upon a ring-shaped Toril, despite all evidence to the contrary, is proof positive of your mental debility. The elves of Shantel Othreier had determined that Toril was a sphere over 20,000 years ago, you pompous fraud, and had calculated its circumference to within a minuscule fraction of its true breadth. You have no business teaching this class, given your brazenly parochial and hidebound understanding of the subject, and you will not, you drivelling clod, continue to pour your benightedness into my fellow students._

_From this and other examples I have concluded that you are the most vile, loathsome, contemptuous, empty-headed, asinine, and fatuous individual this academy has yet produced. You possesses the repugnant sensibilities of one who regrettably stopped short of suicide at a young age and who, as grave insult to all that is proper and just in the Realms, failed to succumb to childhood consumption as well. Your manner of academic instruction resembles that of a baboon in a fit of erotic ecstasy, and your lectures are, when they not intolerably boring, very much akin to the mad ramblings of a man in the throes of hydrophobia. And do not think I have not noticed that bottle of cheap plonk you keep hidden inside the lectern, your gibbering pillock! You have lost the plot, completely and utterly, you stinking arsemonger, and I will forthwith recommend your immediate dismissal to the academy headmaster._

_Yours in contempt,_

_Suvi Korpela_

"Oh my," he said quietly. "I wonder whatever happened to her?"


	13. Fear and Loathing on the Sword Coast

 

Chapter 13 – Fear and Loathing on the Sword Coast

* * *

"I see your reputation is not _entirely_ undeserved, Drizzt."

The ambush had been clumsily executed, to put it mildly. A half-dozen bandits lurking inside a covered wagon, with one man standing outside ready to spin a tale to any hapless traveller about how their wagon had thrown an axle. They might have had greater success had the bandits inside the wagon kept quiet, or if the man standing outside hadn't forgotten to take off his armour.

Drizzt ignored Viconia's remark and grabbed one of the bandits by his collar. His scimitars had dealt him a mortal wound, but perhaps he might get some information before his life bled out of him. "Who's behind the bandit raids on the Sword Coast? Tell me!"

The bandit made a sickening gurgling sound and went limp. Obviously he wasn't going to get anything from this one. "All right," Drizzt said, standing up, "who else here is only mostly dead?"

Someone groaned, and Drizzt sprang over to where he lay. "Maybe _you_ can tell me something! Who's behind these bandit raids along the Sword Coast?"

" _Get the...pretty girl...to ask me,_ " he gasped, gesturing towards Viconia.

She turned away in disgust. "Ugh...filthy _rivvil!_ "

" _In that case...forget it_." His head lolled back and his body went slack.

"Well, we're clearly not going to get much out of these people." He then noticed a scroll of parchment stuffed into the bandit's trousers. "Hmm, what's this?"

Drizzt unravelled the scroll and began reading it aloud. "'Be it known to all those of evil intent that a bounty has been placed on the head of Talvi Korpela, the foster of child of Gorion. Last seen travelling northward to Baldur's Gate, she is to be killed in quick order. The subject is considered to be a very silly girl, and should prove to be little trouble for any experienced bounty hunter.'" He crumpled up the parchment and tossed it aside. "I wonder if this person is related to Suvi Korpela, the elf who defeated Belhifet in Icewind Dale almost a century ago?"

"Does it matter?" said Viconia impatiently. "The troubles of these surfacers are none of our concern."

"No, I feel that I must uncover the cause of this 'iron plague' afflicting the Sword Coast. I've been beset by these damnable bandits ever since I left Athkatla, and I think it's time we got to the bottom of it."

"'We'?" Viconia exclaimed, completely exasperated. "As I just said, this 'iron plague' is of no importance to us! We should-"

The head of her mace suddenly snapped off and landed on the ground with a dull thud. "You were saying?" Drizzt said with a laugh.

"I...uh..."

"We should be going before anyone sees us. Two drow and wagon surrounded by corpses, well, people might start thinking we've lived down to our reputation."

Though he was loath to admit it, he felt a tinge of pride when looked back at the bodies of the bandits he'd slain. He considered humility one of the most important virtues, yet it was hard to be humble when he was, quite simply, the best fighter there was. Anyone who aspired to be the greatest swordsman in all the Realms could rest easy, because the position was taken.

_My biggest problem,_ Drizzt thought, _is that I'm simply too perfect. It makes it difficult for people to relate to me. Perhaps if I intentionally_ _did some things badly, it would make me a little more approachable._

"I don't see why you insist on meddling in the surfacers' affairs," Viconia said scornfully. "They will always hate and despise our kind, no matter how much we lick their boots."

Drizzt stopped. "I couldn't _possibly_ imagine why they might feel that way," he answered, slipping into an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone. "We raid their towns and cities, enslave their people, and constantly proclaim our intention to conquer the surface. Can you blame them for not welcoming us with open arms?"

She suddenly turned wroth. "I have seen enough of the surfacers' depravity for one lifetime, and I do not care to recount the specifics of the _degradation_ I was subject to at their hands! You're a fool to fight at their side. They will betray you the instant it serves their needs."

He sighed. "Still thinking like a typical drow, I see. Let me ask you something, Viconia. What, exactly, have we drow accomplished as a culture? Have we produced any great works of art? Have any great thinkers come from our people? What cause have we advanced beyond bloody conquest? What have we done to make the Realms a better place? Can you name even one thing? No, you can't, of course. As we long as we drow are content to remain as we are, endlessly stabbing each other in the back for our own short-sighted aims, then we will be always be a pitiful and despised race."

Viconia wasn't moved at all by his words. "Then you ought to preach this...this 'gospel of Drizzt' to the Matron Mothers. I am sure they will give your words all the consideration they deserve."

"Mock me all you wish, but deep down, you know I'm right. Why else would you have fled the Underdark, if not because something in your life must have impressed upon you the barbarity of our people?"

"You know nothing of my life."

"Enough of this. We should make haste to Baldur's Gate and inform the Grand Dukes that this 'iron plague' is most likely a drow plot to weaken the armies of both their cities and those of Amn."

Viconia froze in her steps. "What? What proof do you have of this?"

"Nothing but what my instincts tell me, and my instincts have very rarely led me astray. The city of Athkatla is not far from an entrance to the Underdark, which itself is not far from the city of Ust Natha. The 'iron plague' has brought Amn and Baldur's Gate to the brink of war, and no matter who wins that war both countries will severely weakened and unable to resist an attack by the drow. Therefore, I can only assume that the 'iron plague' is their doing."

"This is absurd."

"Absurdity is all that can expected of our kind."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

"Neither do the ways of our people."

Viconia clenched her fists. "You...are... _exasperating!_ "

* * *

By the time night fell, the magnificence of Baldur's Gate had vanished with the light of the sun, and Talvi was beginning distinctly unwelcome here. The townsfolk who had been thronging the streets and plazas just an hour before had disappeared, and even the Flaming Fist appeared to have given the city over to the night. She imagined all manner of brigands and cut-throats lurking the darkened alleys, preying on anyone foolish enough to be out of doors at this hour, and she could not help but feel as though their group had inadvertently wandered into a bad part of town.

"We're lost, aren't we?" Imoen whined. "We should find some place to stay the night before someone decides to stab us."

"That's not going to happen," Talvi said. "You are travelling with an arcane scholar of Candlekeep, after all. I'm sure I'd be able to handle anyone who might accost us."

She spoke those words more to reassure herself than anyone else. She scanned the streets and alleyways for anything that might resemble an inn, but there was nothing to see but rows upon rows of stone and timber framed dwellings that were all but indistinguishable from one another. _However do people find their way in this place?_ Talvi wondered. It seemed to her that it would take but one wrong turn and you'd be so hopelessly disoriented that you'd never find your way out the city again. She was beginning to understand why Jaheira spoke of 'civilisation' with such thinly-veiled derision. Though Baldur's Gate was impressive in its size, it had been built upon the carcass of nature, trampling her underfoot and choking the life out of her.

Imoen stopped and pointed to a brightly-lit building at the end of the street. "Hey, that looks like a place we could spend the night!"

On one side the side of the foyer was a large sign depicting a comely-looking mermaid covering her breasts with her arm and gazing seductively at the viewer. " _The Blushing Mermaid Tavern_ " was the name of this establishment, and Talvi had quite a bad feeling about it. Worse, the building itself looked like it was seconds away from collapsing. Its timbers were rotten, its foundation was cracked, and the roof was in such dire condition that it must have leaked like a sieve in the rain. Everything about this place said "stay away."

"I say, this isn't a _house of ill-repute,_ is it? I refuse to sleep in such a place; Lady Goldheart would be aghast at the debasement of the act of lovemaking that goes in these dens of iniquity."

"Who cares? Let's just get off the street!" Imoen said.

"I d-d-don't think I like this place much, e-e-either," added Khalid. "I think we should g-g-go and look for s-s-some place more h-h-hospitable..."

"Never fear, little man!" Minsc bellowed, his voice unbearably loud in the stillness of the night. "No tavern ruffian has ever gotten the better of Minsc and Boo! Should anyone start trouble, we shall mop the floor with their faces, right Boo? Hmm, what's that? Yes, Boo, I agree...if I mop the floor with their faces, I will not be able to get into the corners very well, but that is not the point!"

Taking a deep breath, Talvi led the way into the Blushing Mermaid, readying herself for the offensive sights and sounds she would surely experience inside.

The second she stepped into the foyer her nose was assaulted with the scent of smoke, cooking meat, grease, skunked ale, and the general stench arising from a gathering of unwashed humanity. The lighting was dim, leaving much of the room in shadow, and that was likely just how the patrons preferred it. Talvi could only guess what sort of illicit deeds this tavern played host to, and she knew that she must have stood out terribly amongst the crude, coarse clientèle. A few individuals glanced at her as she walked through the lobby, wondering who this elf was that was so obvious out of her element, but no one paid much attention to her.

As for the lobby itself, it was a veritable monument to bad taste and indecency. The furniture was garish and mismatched, the lighting was positively dismal, and the décor, if it could be dignified with that word, consisted solely of a crudely-carved statue of a nearly-nude mermaid with a comically-oversized bosom. Everything about this establishment was so utterly repugnant to her elven sensibilities that her first instinct was to turn around and head straight back out the door.

"What a revolting place this is! I'm quite willing to-"

She was interrupted by loud, heavy footfalls approaching from behind. When Talvi turned around, she was confronted by the hideous sight of an ogre brandishing an enormous, blood-stained morning star. He (or perhaps she; ascertaining the gender of this brute was more difficult than she expected) was somehow even more hideous than the ogre she and Imoen had encountered on the way to the Friendly Arm Inn, with sickly yellow skin covered in warts, pustules, and welts. His breath, which she could smell from several feet away, was so rancid and foul that her nostrils slammed shut the second she caught a whiff of it.

" _Hurr...gurr..._ I be Larze. You be stupid elf girl Talvi. You should not have come to Baldur's Gate. You given many warnings but you not listen. Now you die."

His speech patterns were almost as disgusting to her as his appearance, and Talvi found herself feeling an unexpected surge of anger. Not that it would be unusual to feel angry when threatened with murder, of course, but she could not recall ever feeling such an overwhelming urge to inflict gruesome violence on someone. Without thinking, she began uttering an arcane invocation, and before the ogre could swing his morning star she shot forth a barrage of flame from her hands which instantly enveloped his corpulent form.

The ogre let out a surprisingly high-pitched scream for such a large creature, and just like her first encounter with one of his kind, his body caught fire with astonishing rapidity. Perhaps it was all the grease on his skin, or perhaps ogres were just naturally flammable, but he was soon thrashing about in a desperate attempt to quench the flames. He stumbled backwards, and in his flailing he managed to hit a paraffin lamp resting atop a table. The lamp went flying through the air, and Talvi's watched in horror as it arced towards a large stack of barrels of high-proof booze.

The lamp shattered and burst into flames, and in a few seconds later the volatile liquor within the barrels ignited with a loud _whoosh._ Talvi turned away just as a blast of heat tore through the lobby, and she knew, from having set numerous buildings ablaze back in Candlekeep over the years, that the Blushing Mermaid was doomed. The rest of patrons quickly came to the same conclusion, and began stampeding towards the door.

"Run!" she screamed to her companions. They immediately complied, bolting towards the exit ahead of the throng.

Shoddily built from old, dry timber, and maintained in an equally shoddy manner, it did not take long for the fire to spread. By the time Talvi reached the street flames were already shooting from the upper-storey windows.

"I say, I hope we aren't going to be harassed at every inn in this city as well," she said, feeling not all perturbed by the conflagration unfolding before her. "I suppose I should take it as a compliment to my abilities that I am encountering so much opposition wherever I go."

Imoen eyes, however, were focussed on the burning tavern. "Um...we aren't gonna get blamed for this, are we, Talvi?"

"Of course not. That ogre was clearly the aggressor. Any court of law would agree that my actions were mere self-defence."

In less than a minute the entirety of the Blushing Mermaid was ablaze, transformed into a humongous, towering inferno that reached high into the sky, casting its crimson glow across the entire city of Baldur's Gate. The upper floor of the tavern collapsed with a loud _crash,_ sending a plume of embers towards the sky. This was not an unfamiliar sight to her, and Talvi half-expected Gorion to show up and give her his all-too-common lecture about the importance of controlling her arcane abilities.

The rest of the tavern patrons milled about in confusion for a while, then disappeared into the night seeking other sources of intoxication.

"I think we should make ourselves scarce," said Jaheira, looking upon the burning building with total dismay. "The guards will soon-"

There were shrieks of terror from down the street, and when the group ran to investigate, they saw that embers from the Blushing Mermaid were falling upon a decrepit-looking shrine of Ilmater. The flames were spreading across the roof with an alarming alacrity, and it was not long before the roaring blaze had engulfed the entire building.

"You gotta do something, Talvi!" Imoen cried. "Can't you put the fire out with your spells?"

"I'm afraid I have nothing that could possibly remedy this situation." She turned to Jaheira. "Surely some of your druidic magic might avail us? Can you not make it rain or something?"

"Even if I were able to cast such a spell, I doubt even the strongest thunderstorm could quench this inferno," she replied. "The people of this city were foolish to build their homes so close together. What did they expect would happen if a fire broke out?"

Outside the shrine to Ilmater, a half-dozen brown-robed priests were frantically trying to organise a bucket brigade, but their efforts were too little, too late. "But we can't just let the temple burn down!" Imoen protested. "Can we?"

"On the contrary, Imoen," Talvi said, "the priesthood of the Crying God are always willing to suffer in service to their god. I imagine that the destruction of this temple is just one more trial that they will be glad to face; I dare say it may even strengthen their faith."

"Well...if you say so..."

* * *

"Ah, you return, Sir Nevalle! Tell me, how did your meeting with headmaster Alerio go?"

Judging by Nevalle's expression, it had evidently not gone well at all. "It would appear, Lord Nasher, that the headmaster and sanity are only passing acquaintances. He insisted that bards, musicians, and minstrels were the cause of the iron plague."

Lord Nasher fidgeted uncomfortably. Spending so much time on the throne of Castle Never hadn't done his back any favours. "Bards? What possible reason would he have to believe that bards were responsible?"

"I do not know, Lord Nasher, and as I said, the man is quite clearly mad."

"What of the other academy faculty? What did they have to say on the matter?"

"One of the instructors told me that it was the Avariel, the winged elves, who were behind the iron plague, and suggested that the forces of Neverwinter would do well to commit genocide upon their race."

" _Genocide?_ "

"Yes, and that was not the end of the insanity. Another instructor blamed the plague on a conspiracy of blacksmiths to create a scarcity of iron in order to drive up prices. Yet another insisted that the 'moral failings' of the citizens of Baldur's Gate were responsible, while another explained to me that there was no iron plague, just a band of invisible gnomes running off with peoples' swords in order to carry out, in his words, 'unspeakable acts of sexual deviancy.'"

Nasher clenched his fist and slammed it into the armrest of the throne. "By the gods, what has become of the Neverwinter Academy? It's supposed to be an institution for higher learning, not a madhouse! Perhaps I will have Lady Aribeth look into this. In the meantime, I think I shall pay a personal visit to the city of Baldur's Gate. I have my own theory as the nature of the iron plague: I believe it is nothing less than a Luskan plot to undermine the Lords' Alliance!"

Nevalle took a step back. "Um...how do you reckon that, milord?"

"As it stands, Luskan does not possess the military to might to attack Neverwinter or her allies, but this iron plague, if it spreads north, will render our cities defenceless, and I have no doubt the Luskan dogs will be close on its heels."

"Lord Nasher, if this plague is indeed Luskan's doing, wouldn't it have started in the north and spread southward?"

"If this plague had begun in Neverwinter, Sir Nevalle, then we would have immediately suspected Luskan treachery. Spreading it through Baldur's Gate and Amn is merely an attempt to mislead us."

"If that is the case, then perhaps it would be a better idea to convey your suspicions via a letter? I don't have to remind you how dangerous the roads are these days."

Lord Nasher stood up. "A letter would be far less convincing than a visit in person. And it has been far too long since I have travelled beyond the walls of this city. Ready my carriage, Sir Nevalle!"

"Milord, I must protest-"

He silenced him with a gesture of his hand. "I was an adventurer once, if you have forgotten, and wanderlust is bred in my bones. I'm sure you and Lady Aribeth are quite capable of managing the city while I am away."

Sir Nevalle gritted his teeth, but remained silent. It seemed to him that the whole world had gone mad, and that he was a lone island of reason within a swirling maelstrom of insanity. It would all come to a head sooner or later, he reckoned, and he knew that Neverwinter would be in the centre of it.

* * *

_Understanding Our Present Literary Crisis:_ _An Exegesis_

_by Talvi Korpela_

 

_"Beauty would save the world." - Eldratha Kevanarial, High Priestess of Hanali Celanil_

_Amongst non-elven peoples, the Winsome Rose is often described as a mere goddess of love, quite similar in her portfolio to Sune. However, this is a naive oversimplification, as the elven concept of love is quite different from that of the shorter-lived races. The human notion of marriage – the of a lifelong bond – would be considered quite repugnant to most elves. It would be akin to deciding, at some point early one's life, that one would henceforth drink only one kind of wine, sing only one kind song, or wear only one kind of clothing._

_But is not only the domains of love and romance that Lady Goldheart presides over. Her greatest and most important domain is that of Beauty, specifically three kinds of Beauty: Beauty in Aspect, Beauty in Song, and the Beauty of the Word. Beauty in Aspect is not only physical beauty, but beauty in the spaces in which we live. Beauty in Song is Hanali Celanil's love of pleasing melodies and joyous harmonies, while Beauty of the Word is her love for the craft of poetry, the written word, and the artistry of prose. It is this last aspect that I shall be focussing on._

_There has been a disturbing movement in adventuring novels as of late, a marked inclination away from heroism and nobility and towards vulgarity, cynicism, and obscenity. Vacuous tripe such as "The Hexer" or "A Song of Blood and Thunder" are but the most odious examples of this lamentable trend. The gods of Good Taste and Decency are cast down, spat upon, and reviled by these authors of asininity, these purveyors of putrescence, these sellers of sleaze. But whence came this deplorable situation? It would be easy enough, I suppose, to ascribe it to the damaged souls of those who write this drivel, but that would not, I believe, get to the heart of the matter. Instead, we must look back further, to the Time of Troubles._

_It goes without saying that the Time of Troubles was a period of tremendous upheaval and tumult. The gods of Faerûn, to whom so many looked for guidance, were reduced to the status of mere mortals. Clerics who relied upon divine magical suddenly found themselves powerless, and even the Weave itself became dangerously unpredictable. Many gods perished in that bloody strife, among them Myrkul, Mystra, Bane, Bhaal, Moander, and numerous others._

_One cannot overstate the traumatic effect the Time of Troubles had on the population of Faerûn. The great fortress of faith that had been a pillar of strength for so many was revealed to be vulnerable. If one could not trust in the constancy and immutability of the gods, that what could one trust in? A sense of nihilism began to grow and fester, an abhorrent conviction that there was nothing worth believing in, that life was inherently meaningless, and that the only way to live was to care only for oneself. The core of this debased "philosophy" was a grotesque fetishisation of selfishness, cruelty, and cold, hard cynicism, and it was incapable of straying, even for a moment, from its dark, murky path._

_Is it any wonder, then, that the literature of the years following the Time of Troubles is so unrelentingly bleak and miserable? The stench of nihilism and despair clings to the pages like-_

Talvi was jarred from her thoughts by a tremendous _crash_ from below. "Now whatever could _that_ be?" she wondered aloud, setting her quill and parchment aside.

After quietly slinking away from the blaze that had utterly destroyed _The Blushing Mermaid,_ she and her companions had found a much more agreeable establishment named _The Three Old Kegs._ To their immense relief they had not been hassled, harassed, or harangued by anyone upon entering, and the quality of the accommodations was far better than Talvi had expected.

Her plan for the day was to make a visit to this "Scar" fellow that Elminster had mentioned, and then she would find a good, reputable clothier, preferably one catering to the acolytes of the arcane, and replace her rather worn-out robes.

First, however, she had to see what the commotion downstairs was about.

As she descended the stairs to the ground floor it quickly became apparent that a brawl of considerable size and intensity had broken out. And to her utter lack of surprise, Minsc was at the centre of it.

It was a strictly-enforced rule at the Three Old Kegs that guests had to leave their weapons in their rooms. That had not stopped them from using other objects as weapons, however, and at the moment a group of five men were trying to bludgeon Minsc into submission with pool cues they had snatched from a pair of billiard tables. Minsc, meanwhile, had picked up a chair from the nearby counter and was using it defend himself. The other guests on the ground floor were wisely deciding to keep their distance, with Dynaheir among them.

"What's going here? Why aren't you stopping him?" Talvi asked the dark-skinned _wychlaran._

She just sighed in response. "I might as well try to stop an avalanche."

There was a loud _crack_ as one of Minsc's attackers broke a pool cue over the ranger's bald pate. Minsc, barely feeling the blow, whirled around and clobbered the man over the head with his chair. He then leapt atop the bar counter, picked up a small keg of ale, then hurled it at his assailants with enough force to knock one of them on his feet.

"Stop this!" Talvi cried. "Stop this madness at once!"

In response, one of the men flung a bottle of wine at her. With her elven reflexes, she was easily able to snatch it from the air. Totally indignant, she glanced at the bottle label. "What's this? _Berduskan Dark?_ You _dare_ throw this _swill_ at me?" She threw the bottle back at the men, though she lacked the strength to give it much momentum.

Minsc grabbed of his attackers by the arm and yanked him up on top of the counter. " _Great fun! Ha!"_ he bellowed, before decking the man so hard that he went flying backwards.

Imoen came bounding down the stairs, looking dismayed, though not terribly surprised, at the current state of affairs. "Aww, not again! Can't we spend _one_ night at an inn without a fight breaking out?"

"Evidently not," said Talvi. "But keep your distance – these men have utterly _appalling_ taste in wine. I can only imagine what sort of violence and depravity they may be capable of."

Suddenly the door to the inn swung open and in stepped three men clad in polished steel plate mail, followed by Khalid and Jaheira. Their surcoats bore the unmistakable insignia of the Flaming Fist, and even Minsc and his attackers had enough sense to stop what they were doing when the Flaming Fist showed up on the scene.

One of the men, bearing a grotesque scar across his face, stepped forward. "Explain yourselves." His voice was calm, but absolutely authoritative.

The brawlers looked at each other nervously, before one of them quietly pointed at Minsc and said, "He started it."

" _What?_ " Minsc thundered. "These men teased my hamster!"

"'Teased your hamster'?" said the scarred man. "I don't even _want_ to know what that means." He then turned to Talvi and Imoen. "Your Harper companions here tell me you have some business to discuss. I suggest you come along; the rest of you..." He narrowed at his eyes at the brawlers, which was sufficient to render them thoroughly cowed.

This had to be Scar, Talvi thought, his name being a surpassingly literal one. She must have slept a good deal longer than she realised, if Jaheira and Khalid had already found him.

More interestingly, Scar was quite familiar with Minsc's type.

After gathering her belongings from her room, she and her companions started following Scar through the streets of Baldur's Gate, heading towards the headquarters of the Flaming Fist located in the south-west quarter of the city. "It's unwise to travel with one of those Rashemi berserkers," he said. "They have a habit of... _losing..._ themselves, killing everything they see."

"I shall tell thee, that Minsc can tell 'twixt friend and foe," Dynaheir assured him, though with a certain measure of uncertainty, "so long as he hath someone to watch him."

For reasons Talvi could not explain, she found that remark distinctly unsettling.

* * *

The Flaming Fist headquarters was, to Talvi's great disappointment, a truly depressing edifice. Built entirely from worn, grey stone, it consisted a tall, central keep within a ring of seven smaller towers. Like most human architecture she had seen in her travels, it was purely functional in its aesthetics, with no adornment other than a pair of banners bearing the symbol of the Flaming Fist. Perhaps it was meant to represent the stern, uncompromising forces of justice in Baldur's Gate, but to her eyes it seemed more like the embodiment of some cruel, heartless overlord.

Yet there was another building nearby, one even more ominous and threatening. It was the headquarters of the Iron Throne, which towered over every other building in the vicinity. The slate-grey stone of its exterior was a profound contrast to the more brightly-coloured structures in this part of the city, and the townsfolk instinctively steered clear of it. There was no doubt in Talvi's mind that she would going to that terrible place sooner or later, wherein she would surely find the vile, black heart of the terrible conspiracy threatening the Sword Coast.

The interior of the Flaming Fist headquarters was every bit as dreary and dismal as the outside. Reaching the central keep meant walking through one of the four cell blocks, and Talvi forced herself not to look at the lost souls imprisoned in this awful place. She could hear them moaning and wailing, however, and she shuddered at the thought of the barbaric conditions the prisoners had to endure. How this was all supposed to turn criminals into upstanding members of society, she couldn't say, though she knew better than to bring the matter up with Scar. He didn't seem like the type to engage in lengthy, philosophical discussions regarding the nature of crime and punishment.

Scar stopped and turned around. "Before I say anything else, I must ask: were any of involved in that fire last night? It would have burned the entire city down had we not found a Talassan priest to conjure up a storm to put it out. And I don't have to mention what a pain it is dealing with Talassans. Lunatics, all of them!"

Jaheira started to say something, but Talvi spoke first. "No, of course we didn't have anything to do with that. I suspect the fire was started by the Iron Throne as a means of diverting attention from their nefarious activities, or to scapegoat one of their enemies."

Scar raised an eyebrow. "The Iron Throne? Odd that you should mention them, I've been-"

From somewhere in the dark depths of the cell there came a high, raspy voice. " _Scaaaarrrr...who are your new friends, Scar?_ "

He looked in the direction of the voice. "Shut it, Neb!"

" _Don't you want to tell them about all those children I murdered?_ "

"I said shut it!"

Talvi was taken aback. " _Murdered children?_ What sort of monsters are you keeping here?"

"Pay no attention to him," Scar muttered. "He's just-"

" _I still hear their screams...it's nice. They screamed and they screamed and they screamed...oh how they screamed. 'Oh no, Neb, what are you doing what that big old knife?' they screamed._ _Flayed the skin from their bones, I did. Took their skin and bones and made me a nice little house from them, yes I did._ "

"I swear, Neb, one more word out of you and I'll-"

Talvi was beginning to feel very nauseous. "Um...perhaps we should talk elsewhere?"

" _Every mother in Baldur's Gate_ _tucks_ _her children_ _in saying_ _, 'Now you be a good lad, or nasty old Neb is going to come and get you!'_ _Hee hee hee..._ "

"Look, you're going to gallows tomorrow, so you better start praying for forgiveness. Not that it will do you much good."

" _Hee hee hee...you don't know about my little tunnel I've dug here. Soon I shall be free, and I shall once again do Bhaal's bloody work! He does so like the little ones, yes he does..._ "

"Listen, you stupid gnome, you haven't got a tunnel, because if you did you wouldn't be stupid enough to tell me about it!"

" _It's too late for you, Scar. The new Lord of Murder is coming, yes he is. Comes laughing back to life, takes what is his, and rips your flesh from your dead bones shrieking!_ _Hee hee_ _hee_ _!_ "

Scar gave Talvi an embarrassed look. " _Ahem..._ excuse me for just one moment..."

He disappeared into one of the cell blocks, and a few seconds later there Talvi heard one of the cell doors being opened. " _Hey, what are you...-_ "

There were sounds of a struggle, followed by the rhythmic pounding of a fist against someone's head. " _Ow! Hey! This is clearly...help! Help! I'm being oppressed by the forces of the law! The Grand Dukes will hear...ow! Aghh! Ooof! Stop it! I'm a citizen of Baldur's Gate! I have my rights! Ugh! I'll have you all sacked! 'Oy! What don't you pick on someone your own size? Ow!_ "

The shouting stopped and Scar returned, looking quite annoyed. "I'm terribly sorry about that. Now, where were we...?"

"We were talking about the Iron Throne," said Talvi, who was feeling a touch light-headed. "I believe they are responsible for the iron plague afflicting the Sword Coast, as well as the bandit raids. Obviously they intend to establish a monopoly on the iron trade via their hidden mine in the Cloakwood Forest. If you require proof, we have collected several incriminating correspondences from both the mines at Nashkel and one of the bandits' camps."

Scar thought it over for a moment. "I can't say I'm surprised. Duke Eltan has been very suspicious about the Iron Throne, especially after a disturbing number of people started plummeting to to their deaths from the rooftop of their headquarters. They assured Eltan that this was nothing more than a string of unfortunate accidents, but I don't believe it. But we've found no evidence of any wrongdoing on their part."

Jaheira shook her head. "Why I do have the feeling, Scar, that you haven't looked particularly hard?"

"I don't know how things work with you Harpers, but the Flaming Fist has procedures that must be followed. We can't just go barging into peoples' homes and businesses on mere suspicion. The law is very clear on this. That is why I need you for the task I propose. I need outsiders, people with no connections to anyone in the city."

Judging from her jaded expression, Jaheira was no stranger to these kind of tasks. "And, I presume, someone whom you can disavow any knowledge of should something go amiss."

Scar ignored her remark. "I need you to infiltrate the Seven Suns trading coster. A few months ago their leadership began acting very strangely, selling off valuable assets at a fraction of their true worth and neglecting their most profitable trading ventures. Trade is vital to our city's economy, and the Grand Dukes are furious. When I went to talk to the coster's head, Jhasso, he told me to mind my own business. Now, I've known Jhasso for years, and this isn't like him at all. He may have come under a malign influence, or worse, but we have no proof, and no magistrate will grant me permission to begin an official investigation. That is why I need you."

Imoen was positively beside herself with joy. "Oh wow, we're gonna be spies? This is gonna be great, Talvi! I knew all that time I spent stealin' stuff was gonna pay off someday!"

"There is just one thing," Talvi said. "If we are to investigate this 'Seven Suns' gang of money-grubbers, we will need some of sort cover story. I think posing a group of wealthy traders would work marvellously. So with that in mind, mayhap you could suggest a fine clothier where we might attire ourselves in more appropriate clothing?"

* * *

_Upon Evil's Wings: The Avariel Menace_

_by Jaroo, MASTER OF THE ARCANE, Neverwinter Academy_

 

_What words can describe those loathsome abominations, those maledict malefactors, those wicked, winged demons known as the Avariel? How might convey the enormity of their iniquity, the abhorrence one feels when confronted by the sheer depth of their dissoluteness? It may come as a surprise to the gentle reader to learn that the winged elves, so seldom encountered in this day and age, are the vilest, most repugnant, most morally degenerate races on the face of Faerûn. But just as the fairest face may hide the blackest soul, so too may a seemingly-noble race strive to the utmost to conceal their depravity. But I, Jaroo, MASTER OF THE ARCANE, have seen through their lies and deceit and uncovered the horrifying truth._

_I first encountered a specimen of this loathsome race at a circus some years ago. The winged elf had been confined within a cage and kept on display, her innocent countenance and piteous situation eliciting misguided feelings of sympathy from the onlookers. Yet I, Jaroo, MASTER OF THE ARCANE, saw through her façade, and I cursed her and her damnable kind. She began to weep and wail, and my hatred and loathing became so great that I began pelting her with stones, crying "BACK TO THE ABYSS WITH YOU!" And for this they call me mad! Me, Jaroo, MASTER OF THE ARCANE, a madman! Perhaps they are correct, but it is often from fools and madmen that we receive the most profound truths!_

_Hatched from eggs deep beneath the earth, the Avariel is born a soulless creature. It knows nothing except a relentless, insatiable hunger...a hunger for the souls of others. Down from the sky they swoop, snatching hapless men and women in their talons and carrying off them to their aeries where they are subjected to most indescribable torments. Feeding off their terror and suffering, the Avariel commit blasphemies upon mortal flesh so heinous, so appalling, that they would make a cleric of Loviatar recoil in horror. With the bones of their victims they build their accursed cities, and with their flesh and blood they make an offering to the demons they serve. And yet all of Faerûn remains blind to these horrors, these atrocities; all except Jaroo, MASTER OF THE ARCANE!_

_Drawing upon my incalculable expertise, I have devised a means by which we may rid ourselves of this contemptible race once and for all. The typical Avariel, for all its wickedness and deviltry, cannot resist their temptation to consume that most unholy of foods...CHEESE. Like moths to a flame, they are drawn to it, and that is when the trap shall be sprung! Only I, Jaroo, MASTER OF THE ARCANE, could have possibly devised such an ingenious ploy. They laugh at me now, but we shall see how they laugh when I am revealed as the saviour of all the Realms! Death to the Avariel! Death to the winged ones!_

Panting heavily, Jaroo set his parchment aside. His mind was working at a frantic pace, endlessly churning through the intricacies of his brilliant scheme. As soon as the cheesemakers of Neverwinter came through with his enormous requisition, he could set in motion his plan to save Faerûn.

His thoughts went back to that caged Avariel he had seen so many years ago, his heart filled with horror and disgust. That had been no mere elf...it had been evil incarnate! A pity he had not slain her then and there!

Just then Jaroo remembered the letter he had sent to Duke Eltan of Baldur's Gate, informing of the threat the Avariel posed. Obviously they were behind the 'iron plague' ravaging the countryside; what other explanation could there be? Had the duke heeded his words? Probably not – people were all too willing to be seduced by the Avariel's beauteous forms. If only they knew what lurked beneath!

He would have to go Baldur's Gate and speak to the Grand Dukes in person. There he would make them see the truth, or die trying.


	14. Death Triumphant

Chapter 14 – Death Triumphant

* * *

The pungent smell of incense was hanging in the air when Talvi and Imoen stepped into Sorcerous Sundries, an establishment that proclaimed itself to be the premier seller of magical gadgets, gewgaws, baubles, bric-a-brac, gimcracks, curios, and novelties in Baldur's Gate. She was there to purchase a new set of robes, with an eye towards something that was both fashionable and functional. Jaheira and Khalid were off attending to some Harper business, while Minsc and Dynaheir had gone shopping for new arms and armour.

The ground floor was deserted save for the shopkeeper, a wizened old man who looked over the two women with a suspicious gaze. "What's this? Customers? Well if you're going to buy something then be quick about! There's nothing I hate more than people who come into my shop and spend hours looking at every bloody little thing, then decide they're too good for my store end and up not buying anything after all!"

Talvi found his manner distinctly offensive. "Why such hostility? You are a merchant, after all. Shouldn't you be more hospitable to your patrons?"

" _Pfaagh!_ The customer is always an idiot, I say, which means _you're_ an idiot unless you can prove otherwise! I expect you'll purchase some magical artefact you have no understanding of and then blow yourself up with it. Well, just don't do it in my store!"

"Why is everyone we meet so _rude?_ " Imoen said, putting her hands on her hips. "I tell you, Talvi, there must be some conspiracy to bullyrag us everywhere we go!"

The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes. "'Talvi?' You're name is 'Talvi?' That's the most awful name I've ever heard! Bah! The rotten names parents give their children these days! Whatever happened to good old-fashioned names like Cobbledick, Squatpump, or Humperdinck?"

Now she was truly indignant. "There's nothing wrong my name, you ponce! It simply means 'winter' in a northern elven dialect. Now are you going to let me shop or are you just going to stand there and insult me?"

"Go on and browse through my wares, then. I'll stay here behind the counter and silently judge you."

"Fine. Now tell me where I might find some robes."

The shopkeeper gestured towards the east side of the building. "They're over there, but I think you're far too buxom to fit into anything elf-sized. I don't think I've ever seen one of your kind with such ample breasts. You are clearly some kind of aberration. Was one of your ancestors a succubus, by any chance?"

It took every ounce of restraint to keep from slapping the man silly. "Stop staring at my bosom, you lech, lest Lady Goldheart blast your eyes! Come, Imoen, let us waste no more words with this fool."

"We oughta wait until it's dark and then break in and steal everything we can get our hands on," Imoen muttered once they were out of earshot of the shopkeeper.

"Normally I'd oppose such criminal behaviour, but I think I'm willing to make an exception in this case. I wonder how that irascible knobhead manages to get any customers at all."

There was a great variety of arcane clothing and other vestments for sale here, with the most expensive and elaborate examples displayed on wooden mannequins. Most of it was rather unappealing to Talvi's elven sensibilities, with one item in particular that struck her as being especially absurd. It was a set of women's robes, bright purple in colour, and featuring a neckline that plunged down below the wearer's navel. "By the gods!" Talvi exclaimed. "What sort of brazen hussy is this preposterous peignoir intended for? It offers no protection whatsoever from the elements or any kind of magical energy."

To her dismay, the shopkeeper overheard her. "Those robes are considered the very acme of _haute couture_ in the cities of Neverwinter and Waterdeep! How very unfortunate that your unrefined tastes are unable to appreciate their obvious fashionability. Perhaps you would find a burlap sack more appealing to your stunted sense of perspicacity?"

"How about this?" said Imoen, pointing to a bright red set of robes.

Talvi examined the article of clothing carefully. "I can't deny the quality of tailoring, but the hue is not to my liking. It is far too much like the robes worn by the Red Wizards of Thay, and the last thing I want is to be mistaken for one of those feculent blackguards. I would prefer clothing of a more verdant chromaticity, not only to reflect the innate connection we elves share with nature, but also for its qualities of camouflage."

She heard the sound of someone walking into the store, which was followed by a barrage of abuse from the shopkeeper. "Eh...what's this? Another customer? What do you want, you mincing coxcomb? Your visage is so hideous that I'd burn this shop to the ground if I thought I could catch you in the flames!"

"How very rude!" the man replied. "Do you always treat your clientèle in this manner?"

"Buy something or get out. And I don't want to hear any sort of haggling, bartering, bargaining, chaffering, or paltering! You knew when you came in here that premium magical items demand a premium price."

"Do you even know who I am?" the man said indignantly.

"Eh? What's that? You don't know who you are?" The shopkeeper slammed his hands down on the counter. "Can I have everyone's attention, please?" he yelled. "I've got a man here who _doesn't know who he is!_ If anyone would be so kind as to tell him, I'm sure he'd be very grateful."

"I am Davaeorn, a man of no small consequence within the Iron Throne. I suggest you show me the respect that is due."

Talvi froze. This was the man who was in charge of the mines in the Cloakwood Forest. She quietly moved amongst the clothing shelves in order to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"I don't care if you're the Grand Duke himself! Buy something or bugger off."

"I'm going to be travelling to Candlekeep tomorrow to meet with the Knights of the Shield, and as per their rules I require a tome of great value to gain entrance. Would you happen to have such a thing in stock, or are you just some peddler of cheap trinkets?"

A sudden chill came over her. What business would some minion of the Iron Throne have at Candlekeep? Talvi glanced out from behind one the shelves, and spied a tall, gaunt man dressed in a green robe standing before the counter. His back was turned to her, however, and she could not make out his face.

"A tome of great value, you say? I've got just the thing! It's book I've written myself, and it's titled _Go Plough Yourself, You Doxy-Swiving Gongoozler._ I highly recommend it to such a distinguished personage like yourself."

"I can see that my gold would be wasted here. No doubt I can find what I seek elsewhere."

The shopkeeper cackled. "I don't you think you will! There's no one else in Baldur's Gate who sells what I sell. I've cornered the market, you see, which means you have no choice but to put up with me."

"Do you have a tome of great value or not?" Davaeorn growled.

"I do have one, the _Liber Bibonii,_ but I can't let it go for anything less than ten thousand gold."

"I'll buy it for 7500."

"I told you, no haggling!"

"How about 5000?"

"Bah! You don't even know _how_ to haggle! Get out! Maybe the Low Lantern by the docks would have services more appealing to someone of your low station!"

By this point Davaeorn sounded like he was seconds away from throttling the old man. "Or perhaps I could just kill you and take the tome for myself? I am a man of great influence in this city; no magistrate would convict me."

"Just try it, you dropsied sack of mundungus! You'll never make it past the elemental wards I've set up around the counter. You think you're the first customer to threaten me? The Thieves' Guild is just down the street, and they've never once tried to rob me. They know that to oppose me is akin to standing before Death itself!"

"Very well, I'll pay your price, but know that you've made a powerful enemy this day."

"Go stuff your head up your own buttocks, you plonker!"

Talvi turned to Imoen. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. "That's the man who ran the Cloakwood mines, and he's going to defile our old home of Candlekeep! We cannot allow this. First, however, I must complete this arduous task of finding new robes."

"What? Are you still here?" the shopkeeper shouted at her. "I thought you'd crawled off and died somewhere. Well, no matter. You're taking far too long to decide what to buy, so for every minute you spend here I'll be increasing the price of whatever you purchase by one hundred gold pieces!"

Talvi continued to ignore him. "I say, now _this_ robe is far more to my liking," she said, pointing a long, green set of robes with an intricate leaf pattern woven into the fabric. "I can't say if this is the work of an elven seamstress, though if it isn't they have most certainly done a fine job of emulating the particular style."

The shopkeeper launched into a blistering tirade the instant her fingers touched the garment. "You keep your grubby hands off that, you slattern! That is the work of master craftswoman Caerthynna Tyrneladhelu! You can't afford it! It costs more money than you'll ever make in your entire elven lifespan! Now get out, I say! Get before I unleash my arcane fury upon you, you flesh-monger, you beslobbering bolting-hutch of barbarity!"

Imoen stamped her foot. "That tears it! C'mon Talvi, we've got better things to do than waste time with this old gudgeon!"

"Yes, I agree. The next time speak with Scar we should inform of this merchant's deplorable behaviour. Perhaps I shall write to the Grand Duke himself and suggest that he place some manner of economic interdict upon this poxed establishment."

They departed Sorcerous Sundries just as a young dwarf was entering, and predictably, the shopkeeper was waiting with a volley of insults. "What? _Another one?_ By the gods, is there no end to these dozy customers? And what would one of you rock eaters want in _my_ store? Your kind have all the magical affinity of a leprous Sembian she-wolf! Not one step further, you muppet! I'll not have you dragging in dirt and offal like some kind of hedge-born, crooked-nose knave! Bah! Such villainy I am forced to put up with..."

"What an utterly horrible individual that was," Talvi remarked as soon as they were out of the store. "I'm surprised that a horde of slighted and abused patrons has not yet burned his store to the ground in a riot. Now I suppose we'll have to look elsewhere for clothing, and knowing our fortunes we'll likely end up encountering an even surlier proprietor."

Imoen gave her a mischievous smile. "No we don't, 'cause I got you the robes!" She reached into her pack and pulled the very same set of robes Talvi had just been looking.

"What? You _stole_ them? How?" Talvi exclaimed.

She shrugged. "I figured the old geezer was blind as a bat. When he was all spittin' fire and swearin' I went and filched the goods. That old scobberlotcher never even saw me when I knapped the swag!"

Talvi had to admit that this was an impressive bit of thievery. "Hmm, normally I'd chide you for this, but I dare say that shopkeeper deserved it. Well, thank you for the gift; it will surely allow me to make a better impression on the pernickety sorts of people we are forced to deal with. But more importantly, we must return to Candlekeep as soon as our business in this city is concluded. I won't allow those Iron Throne slubberdegullions to vitiate the hallowed halls of my library fortress, and I suspect they've chosen to gather there as a personal insult to me. And did you hear that Davaeorn fellow say that he was meeting with the Knights of Shield? This will not stand."

"Never heard of em'," said Imoen.

"They are not knights but knaves, more interested in gold than gallantry. Their name is likely nothing more than a transparent attempt at dissimulation. But as revolting as this development is, there is the matter of the Seven Suns trading coster that Scar bade us look into. I suspect your thieving skills will be thoroughly tested, Imoen."

She nearly jumped for joy. "I'm gonna steal everything I can stuff into my bag! I'm gonna be rich!"

* * *

The group reconvened later that evening by the Seven Suns headquarters, which stood rather ominously in the shadow of the Iron Throne's tower. Nothing about it looked remotely inviting. The windows were dark and the curtains were shut, leaving one with the impression that everyone had gone home for the day. Talvi had a sinking feeling in her gut as she approached the building, imagining all manner of shady and nefarious dealings going on within.

They needed some kind of plan, she reckoned. Judging from the way he was fidgeting about, Minsc favoured smashing through the door and slaughtering everyone inside until they found the answers they sought. Talvi, on the other hand, knew that this was a task that called for subterfuge.

She turned to Khalid. "Here is our plan: You, Khalid, will be posing the leader of a merchant expedition from Calimport."

Already she could see the colour draining from his face. "M-m-me?"

"Yes, and you will endeavour to impress upon the representatives of the Seven Suns that you are a relative of one of the pashas, who is most displeased with their recent activities. You will demand an explanation, though the one you will receive will most likely be a lie. At this point you must point to Minsc, your 'bodyguard', and offer up the insinuation that he will inflict significant bodily harm upon anyone who stands in your way. While you are engaged in conversation with the merchants, Imoen will attempt to purloin some incriminating documents or some other kind of evidence that we can present to Scar."

"I'm not s-s-sure that this is s-s-such a good idea," Khalid, clearly terrified. "I'm n-n-not any good at l-l-lying."

"It's not really so hard, Khalid. If, for instance, they were to ask you about trade routes, then you would simply state that you only operate caravans on the most dangerous routes, for those are the most profitable. Tell them that your caravans are guarded by dozens upon dozens of the most bloodthirsty mercenaries one can find in Calimshan, that you have fended off attacks by fire giants, fomorians, and deepspawn, that you have even dared to trade with the drow themselves. You must present yourself as a hard, unsentimental man with an eye towards profit and nothing else. Of course, they may ask you why are clad in armour and not the ornate finery of a wealthy merchant. In this case, you will tell them that your profession is so perilous that you are confronted with death every single day; furthermore, you will explain that your enemies are beyond counting and that you have killed more men than smallpox. That should impress upon the Seven Suns that you not a man to be trifled with. If they are insufficiently cowed by this point, then you will describe at length how Minsc is utterly unable to resist his urge to kill everything in sight, and that he is restrained only by a very powerful geas. Tell them that this geas loses its power in the presence of lies and falsehoods. At this point they ought to be so terrified that they will gladly tell you everything."

Khalid was still not yet convinced. "M-m-maybe someone else should d-d-do it..."

"You must, since you are the most... _ahem..._ foreign in appearance out of all of us. We can play on these merchants' xenophobia to further terrify them into submission. The 'ruthless Calishite merchant' is a well-known cliche; I'm sure everyone in the building will have heard the tales of Pasha Pook's depravity and his sordid dealings with Artemis Entreri. Honestly, you have nothing to fear, Khalid. These are merchants, after all; they'll probably be more frightened of you than you are of them."

He turned to his wife. "What d-d-do you think, Jaheira?"

"It is not a bad idea, but perhaps _I_ should be the one to do the talking."

Looking as apprehensive as ever, Khalid approached the front door to the Seven Suns headquarters and, with some prodding from Jaheira, gently rapped on the door. Talvi and Imoen stood off the side and out of sight.

After a few moments they heard the door open, and Khalid tried to stammer out a greeting before his wife interrupted him. "Is the guildmaster present?" she asked brusquely. "We have urgent-"

"Go away," someone replied in a gruff voice, followed by the sound of the door being slammed shut.

"Oh m-m-my," said Khalid, "that was v-v-very rude..."

"If these people did not wish to arouse suspicion, then they are doing a very poor job of it," Jaheira added.

"I got an idea," said Imoen. "How about Talvi and I sneak in through the back door? I know how to pick locks, and I can move without making a sound."

"And is there some reason why I should come along?" Talvi asked. "I don't think I'm much of a sneak."

"Because I...I don't wanna go in there alone!"

Talvi sighed. "Well, we don't have much of a choice, do we? We can't exactly going charging in like a horde of barbarians."

For a brief moment Minsc's eyes appeared to glaze over. "Why not?"

"Then let us waste no more time," Talvi said, ignoring Minsc's question. "The rest of you should wait outside and listen for any signs of trouble."

At the rear the Seven Suns' headquarters was a set of doors, presumably intended for deliveries. Upon finding that they were locked, Imoen withdrew a set of lockpicks from one of her tunic pockets. "Just give me a few seconds and I'll get this open."

"Where did you get those?" Talvi whispered. "I've never seen you with them before."

"I stole...er...I _bought_ them from a merchant who came to Candlekeep a few years back. But most of those old monks never lock up their stuff anyway, so I never got a chance to use em'."

Imoen knelt in front of the door and inserted a pair of picks into the lock and began working the tumblers. "Ain't no lock in the Realms that can keep out Imoen the Quick!"

"'Imoen the Quick?' Since when did you adopt that epithet?" Talvi asked, looking around to make sure no one saw them.

"Since now. Figured I needed a nickname, so why not 'Imoen the Quick?"

"I don't know, it sounds a bit…trite. How about 'Imoen the Plunderous' or 'Imoen the Kleptomaniacal?'"

With a sharp _snap_ the door lock opened. "No, 'Imoen the Quick' sounds good. Now come on!"

"Keep your voice down!" Talvi hissed. "I can hear you as plain as day!"

Imoen gently opened the door and slipped inside, with Talvi following close behind. The interior was dark, and from somewhere in the distance they could hear the muffled sounds of conversation.

The first thing Talvi noticed was the hard tile floor, which would make it difficult to move quietly. The second thing she noticed was the deplorable aesthetics of the place, with its grim grey walls and total lack of decoration. No sense of proportion or balance, no regard for proper form or geometry, just pure, unadorned functionalism, which was about as offensive to her elven sensibilities as anything could be.

Imoen continued to creep forward through the hall, though though even at this slow pace her footsteps were unbearably loud to her ears. She prayed that there were no other elves in the building, as their keen senses would rumble them for sure. Her heart was pounding, though it was difficult to decide which emotion was stronger – the fear of being caught, or her disgust at her surroundings. _I still don't understand how do humans live and work in these places,_ she thought to herself. _This place might as well be_ _a common_ _dungeon!_

The hallway turned right just ahead, and suddenly Imoen came to a stop. She gestured for Talvi to approach, and so she crept along the wall and peered around the corner. What she saw was the strangest sight she had yet witnessed in her travels.

At first glance, Talvi thought that a half-dozen naked men were standing around a table while another man in a dark green robe addressed them. But she immediately realised that these men weren't human; they were too thin, too gaunt, and their skin was an unnatural shade of pale grey. And though she had never seen these creatures in person before, she recognised them as the hideous race of beings called doppelgängers. It was clear now what had happened – the Iron Throne had replaced the Seven Suns' leadership with imposters, who were trying to drive the organisation into bankruptcy.

The individual speaking to them was an older man, with grey hair and beard, and Talvi could not help but be reminded of Gorion. One look, however, was enough to dispel any idea that there was any similarity between the two. Even from a distance she could see the cold, cruel glint in his eyes, the look of a man who had long ago traded his conscience for personal gain.

"We've done what you asked, Rieltar," said one of the shapeshifters, speaking in ghastly, hissing tone. "We have almost fully... _liquidated..._ the Seven Suns' assets."

"Yes, so you have," Rieltar replied. "But what's this I hear about your implicating Amn in all of this business? That was _not_ part of the instructions you were given! The Grand Dukes were to believe that the collapse of this trading coster was merely the result of an economic down-turn arising from the iron crisis." He paused for a moment, then continued speaking. "Don't bother saying anything; it was Sarevok who put you up to it, wasn't it? That blasted fool! He's hell-bent on starting a war with Amn; for what reason, I do not know, but a war is the last thing the Iron Throne desires. We can't very well run a business if the entire city of Baldur's Gate is razed to the ground, can we?"

"So what you would you have us do?"

"First of all, you must retract any accusations you have made against Amn. Secondly, you will remain in contact with Sarevok and report everything he says. My foster child is obviously pursuing his own agenda, one that I'm sure does not align with the interests of the Iron Throne. No doubt he thinks he can outsmart and outmanoeuvre me, but he doesn't realise that I taught him everything he knows."

Talvi thought she detected a hint of doubt in those words, as if he didn't quite believe them himself. Rieltar turned and walked out the door without another word, leaving the doppelgängers talking amongst themselves.

"Hee hee hee, he actually believes that we are working for _him,_ " said one of the shapeshifters. "Does he think the pitiful amount of gold he has offered us can buy our loyalty? Now, does Jhasso still live?"

"He does, but we've gotten everything we can out of him."

"Then kill him, and leave the mark of the Shadow Thieves on the body. Once that's done we will-"

With a loud _crash_ the front door was thrown off its hinges, followed by the unmistakable sound of Minsc's war cry. The six doppelgängers suddenly found themselves face-to-face with the fury of a Rashemi berserker, and before they could react Minsc beheaded one of the grey-skinned fiends with a brand-new sword he had picked up just hours before.

"By the gods!" Talvi cried. "Not this again!"

The remaining doppelgängers charged at him, thinking that they could overwhelm the ranger with their numbers. But the berserk fury had taken control of him, completely and utterly, and he had no aim or purpose but to kill everything in sight. Knowing that Minsc's unrestrained rage was as dangerous to them as it was to their enemies, Talvi and Imoen remained in the hallway.

"What are these things, Boo? I don't know, but I know they need killing, and kill them I shall! _WAAAAGGGH!_ "

One of the doppelgängers leapt on Minsc's back, trying to wrestle him to the ground, but Minsc grabbed it by the arms and threw it the ground, then thrust his sword into its chest. The four remaining shapeshifters, being more greedy than brave, turned and fled, which demonstrated a near-total lack of understanding of Rashemi psychology.

It was widely known that, in the warrior culture of Rashemen, dying in battle was the greatest honour a man could aspire to. Conversely, fleeing battle was considered the ultimate demonstration of cowardice, an act so shameful and vile that it brought a man everlasting infamy and reproach. By turning and fleeing, the doppelgängers were not merely acting out of self-preservation in Minsc's eyes. No, they were delivering a truly heinous insult, one that Minsc's warrior spirit found unbearable, and at that instant their fate was sealed.

Roaring like bear, Minsc ran after the doppelgängers, impaling one on his sword. It let out a horrendous screech before collapsing into a pool of its own blood, a thick, putrid ichor. "You cannot escape the wrath of Minsc and Boo! Have at you!"

"Oh my, I don't think I can stand to watch this," said Talvi, looking away just as Minsc painted the walls with one of the doppelgänger's innards. "The sheer barbarism of it all..."

There were just two shapeshifters remaining, both of whom were running towards the back door. Minsc grabbed one by the neck and threw it to the ground, then slashed at the legs of the other, causing the fiend to crumple to the floor. Talvi turned her head away, trying her hardest not to listen to the horrible sounds of Minsc hacking the doppelgängers to pieces.

"What's the meaning of this?" she said angrily the second Minsc had finished his bloody work. "You were supposed to wait outside!"

"No sooner had you gone in than Boo's whiskers started trembling, and we knew that evil was stirring. How could we stand by and let great heroes face such peril alone?" His hamster began squeaking loudly, apparently disagreeing with his explanations. "No, Boo, it was _not_ because I wanted to try out this new sword. Well, maybe a little..."

Dynaheir was following closely behind, albeit not closely enough to avert a bloodpath, and she began apologising profusely. "I am sorry, truly, but I could not stop him before he...well...thou canst see for thyself."

Talvi would rather _not_ see for herself; in fact, she was trying very hard not to look at the bloody remains of the doppelgängers. The creatures had left a foul stench hanging in the air, an odour that smelled like a putrid mixture of sweat and stale beer. It was enough to make her feel quite queasy.

"He's going to get himself killed one day, does he know that?" she said, not even caring that Minsc was in the same room.

"'Tis true, the life of a Rashemi berserker is not a long one..." Dynaheir trailed off, as if she were suddenly beset by some doubt or uncertainty.

When Khalid first beheld the carnage Minsc had wrought, he went pale in the face. "Oh m-m-my, this is just...I think I'm g-g-going to be..."

He didn't finish, instead running back outside, presumably to empty the contents of his stomach. His wife was a bit more stoic about things, but even she couldn't hide her disgust. "So the Seven Suns have been infiltrated by doppelgängers. I suspected as much, and where there is one group there are bound to be others." She gave a heavy sigh, speaking the truth that everyone in their group now understood. "We can't trust anyone in this city. The Iron Throne has likely replaced those in positions of leadership, perhaps even the Grand Dukes themselves."

A quick search of the building revealed an even ghastlier sight: Jhasso, the head of the Seven Suns, had been chained to a wall in the basement, and judging from the welts and bruises on his body the doppelgängers had been spending a good deal of time tormenting him. Still, he remained defiant, greeting the group with a venomous tirade the moment they stepped into the basement.

"Back for more, you shape-shifting bastards? You won't get anything more out of me, no matter what form you take. And you don't even know how to do an elf, neither!" He stared at Talvi in contempt. "Word to the wise, you motherless beast, elves aren't that busty!"

She scowled at that remark. "We aren't doppelgängers! We're here at the bidding of commander Scar of the Flaming Fist. And secondly, we elves come in many shapes, sizes, and colours, thank you very much; I suspect your experience with our kind has been highly circumscribed."

"Scar sent you?" he said in the midst of a coughing fit. "I'll be glad to tell you everything I know, if you would be so kind as to unshackle me."

Imoen set to work freeing him from his chains, handily picking the lock the same dexterousness she had displayed earlier. "Aye, that's better," he said, rubbing his wrists. "Those bloody shapeshifters started worming their way into this place a few months ago. I knew there was something rotten about those new hires, but I couldn't resist the allure of cheap labour. They must have started taking the lower-ranked members; being honest with you, we don't really pay much heed to them. We mostly use them for jobs that are too perilous for the rest of us."

Talvi frowned. "'Perilous?' What could possibly be perilous about running a trading coster?"

"You haven't been in this city very long, have you? The merchant's trade is as deadly a trade as that of the soldier or sellsword. We've lost dozens of caravans to those damned bandits along The Coast Way, and that's not even counting all the backstabbing and bloody-knuckled politicking that goes on here. We've gone through two dozen food tasters this year alone, although that may have been because of our cook's incompetence. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get started undoing all the damage those monsters have done."

"One more thing, before you go," Talvi said. "Are you by any chance familiar with the establishment called _Sorcerous Sundries?_ "

"Halbazzer's place? What of it?"

"I was there earlier this day to purchase some clothing, and while I looked through the robes and vestments I was cruelly subjected to a ceaseless stream of abuse from the proprietor, as were several other patrons. Since you are a merchant of some renown and influence within this city, I would be very glad if you were to level some form of economic sanction against the owner, though I would be satisfied with him being publicly pilloried. Perhaps being pelted and pummelled with putrid fruits and other foodstuffs would incline him to be more a hospitable host."

Jhasso looked at her as though she were insane. "I...uh...I'll see what I can do," was his non-committal answer. He then rushed upstairs, where he expressed, in the most vulgar terms imaginable, his shock and horror at seeing the mangled remains of the doppelgängers.

"I dare say he won't do a single thing about that scrofulous shopkeeper," Talvi said, pouting. "I shall have to write several letters to the Grand Duke regarding this matter. In the meantime, let us return to Scar and report what we've found, then we must make haste to Candlekeep in all...um...haste."

"Why?" asked Jaheira.

"Because I've just found out that representatives of the Iron Throne and the Knights of the Shield will be meeting there shortly. But why would they choose to meet there? If it is secrecy and security they desire, then there are many other places they could go, ones with far less onerous conditions for entry. The only sensible conclusion, then, is that the Iron Throne is aware of my efforts to oppose them, and they are going to Candlekeep as personal affront to me."

Jaheira looked at her with a mixture of scepticism and bemusement. "And what is your proposed plan of action? Are you suggesting we attack, unprovoked, an entire delegation inside Candlekeep?"

"I...erm...well..."

"As distasteful as this is to you, we have much more pressing concerns. From what our Harper comrades have told us, The Iron Throne is seeking much more than a monopoly on a trade."

"We've heard s-s-some d-d-disturbing things," Khalid added. "They're exca-v-v-ating a temple to Bh-Bh-Bhaal beneath the city!"

"I am quite tired of hearing that dead god's name," said Talvi angrily. "It was bad enough I had to listen to those tiresome Chanters going on about Bhaalspawn outside my window every morning."

Jaheira started moving towards the exit. "I don't know what the Iron Throne is planning, but it is hardly likely that a temple of Bhaal will hold any artefacts of a benevolent purpose."

But Talvi wasn't listening. "Those Chanters were just _dreadful._ As I've told Imoen many times before, I could never understand the purpose of it, unless they believed that chanting the prophecies of Alaundo would make them come true. And even though they could have chanted anywhere on the Candlekeep grounds, they always chose to stand beneath my bedroom window. When I inquired as to their reason for this they spouted off some rubbish about 'acoustics' or whatever, but I believe it was done simply out of spite given their dire vocal abilities. If I were to hold the position of the Keeper of the Tomes, there position of 'Chanter' would be eliminated forthwith, let me tell you!"

"Talvi!" Imoen exclaimed.

"What?"

"You're ranting again! Stop it!"

* * *

Without his armour, Sarevok felt naked.

One would have to be a fool to ride alone, unarmed and unarmoured, to Candlekeep, especially in the middle of night. The Watchers would wonder who this strange man was, who had travelled so far and braved the bandit-infested roads just to gaze upon some dusty old tomes, and they would not have even the slightest suspicion that the future Lord of Murder strode amongst them. He would be just another pilgrim, driven to abandon all sense and reason in the tireless pursuit of knowledge.

Conveying that impression, naturally, would be rather difficult were he to go about in full plate.

Still, he loathed the feeling of being vulnerable. His armour served both practical and aesthetic purposes. It not only protected him from the assassin's blade, it concealed his face, so that no one might gauge his emotions. It marked him as a man not to be trifled with, a man of such power and might that a potential attacker might as well just slit his own throat rather than stand against him. _Here is a man that you must pity,_ it seemed to say, _for he has no more enemies left to crush._ It told the world that he was a man unrestrained by the comforts and artificiality of civilisation, a man who might kill you in an instant for no reason at all, and you would only have yourself to blame for being too weak to withstand him.

Fools like Rieltar, their minds clouded by their grasping pecuniary ambitions, thought it was absurd that he should wear the sigil of Bhaal upon his breastplate. They could be forgiven for their ignorance; they understood godhood only in the act of worship, not apotheosis. The transition from mortal to divine would require Sarevok to alter the very fundamentals of thinking, something he had been focussing on intensely for the last few tendays. To understand the legacy of Bhaal necessitated a consummate understanding not the mere act of taking life, but the act of _murder,_ the art of unlawful killing. He would be the knife in the dark, the infant strangled in its crib, the innocent citizens slaughtered by an invading army. He would sit upon his grand and terrible throne atop a mountain of skulls, each act of murder bringing glory to His name, each one more senseless and meaningless than the last. He would be the universal negation, the supreme agent of Death. Wherever a mortal soul came to a violent and untimely end, he would be there to collect his due.

There had been a saying amongst the priesthood of Bhaal: _Even in Life, We are in Death._ They understood fully that all existence tended towards chaos and entropy, and that the only way to survive was to gain mastery over Death. Every moment, every second of one's life, was a struggle laden with destiny and meaning. Life was never granted, it was earned. It was conditional, a choice one had to make again and again. Being or Not Being, preservation versus elimination, strength versus weakness, everything had to fall to one side or another. But no matter how much one struggled, Death was always triumphant in the end. The strongest mortals would eventually succumb to the ravages of time and calamity, and even gods themselves would perish one day.

And that, Sarevok reasoned, was why Bhaal, far from being a mindless, bloodthirsty brute, was the wisest and most cleverest of the gods. He knew that godhood was no guarantee of immortality, so he had taken steps to ensure the continuation of his existence. He alone possessed the strength and wisdom to defy Death.

Sarevok pushed such heady thoughts of his mind and concentrated on the distant spires of Candlekeep, barely visible against the waning light of the sun. Rieltar and the others would arrive tomorrow or the day after, completely unaware that Sarevok's doppelgängers had already infiltrated the library fortress. Gorion's Ward, if his instincts were correct, would be following close on his heels, and it would be a simple matter for the doppelgängers to take the form of Korpela and her companions before delivering Rieltar to his death. She had opposed the Iron Throne at every turn, so the motive for the killings would be obvious. With any luck she would hang for her crimes, and Sarevok would be rid of her at last.

Any number of things could go wrong. The doppelgängers might be discovered. Gorion's Ward might not make it to Candlekeep in time, or she might evade arrest. But nothing noteworthy was ever accomplished without risk. Sarevok was used to playing for high stakes. He had been _born_ playing them. Life on the streets of Baldur's Gate had taught him that the world was divided into winners and losers, and that whichever one you were was a matter of individual _choice._

_I am a being of pure Will,_ he thought to himself. _All Will, and all Control. I do not have understanding of, and_ desire _no understanding of, the meaning or importance of other people. All the momentous events in history have arisen through the will of great men such as I.  
_

To name himself one of these "great men" would be denounced as the very pinnacle of arrogance and pride. But Sarevok was beyond caring. Humility and timidity was not the path to godhood.

A loud, nasally voice jarred him from his thoughts. "What's this? You...you there! Stop where you are!"

He brought his horse to a halt, and spied a man standing upon the edge of the cliff. Whoever was this person was, he was dressed in disgustingly-garish colours which immediately identified him as a member of the nobility of Baldur's Gate. "D-don't come any closer!" he hollered. "Or I'll _jump!_ Yes, you heard me! I'll do it, I swear!"

_What sort of lunatic is this?_ Sarevok thought. "Do you think your life matters to me at all?"

The man looked down at the waves crashing against the base of the cliff "Well, no, but you wouldn't let a man just throw himself to his death, would you?"

"If you wish to die, then by all means fling yourself over the edge. Perhaps your body will break against in the rocks in some manner that is amusing to me."

Even in the fading twilight Sarevok could see the outrage in his eyes. " _What?_ How could you be so callous, so _cruel_? I am _clearly_ in distress here! Have you any concern for the plight of your fellow man? Have you any care for _my_ needs?"

"In a word...no."

"Then I choose to live for no reason but to spite you! You'll regret the day you ever met me, mark my words!"

With that he scampered off into the woods, leaving Sarevok to wonder at the meaning of it all.


	15. The Dawn of Insanity

Chapter 15 – The Dawn of Insanity

* * *

_Your Grace, Grand Duke Eltan of_ _Baldur's Gate_ _, Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Flaming Fist Mercenary Company, Founder of Fort Flame, Slayer of the Tuigan Horde, Etc._

_I bring to your attention a very serious matter concerning a business within your city, specifically the_ _establishment known as "Sorcerous Sundries"_ _located near the eastern city gates._ _The proprietor of this shop has proven himself to be a man low character, an utter charlatan, a rapacious mountebank, a blustering gnashgab,_ _a fulminating_ _fish-bagger_ _, and_ _a most detestable,_ _dilapidated creation._ _I have gathered here a list of complaints from the fair citizens of Baldur's Gate regarding the deplorable behaviour of this particular merchant,_ _and in the interests of safeguarding their lives and livelihoods I have chosen to keep their names a secret, for I have received word that Sorcerous Sundries has numerous_ _ties_ _to the criminal underworld._ _Read now their words and understand what a vile venture this entrepreneurial entity truly is._

" _I purchased a potion of healing from Sorcerous Sundries and shortly after I was afflicted with a thunderously explosive disorder of the bowels! I will certainly never purchase anything from this store ever again!"_

" _You didn't hear this from me, but I heard that the owner of Sorcerous Sundries puts black lotus extract into his potions so that people get hooked on them._ _Why else would he have so much repeat clientele when he's such a rotten, blustering gasbag_ _?"_

" _The shopkeeper insulted_ _me and the thirteen generations of my ancestors. He ought to be carved into pieces and fed to the ankhegs."_

" _WARNING CAUTION DANGER APPROACHING THIS STORE HAS TIES TO THE IRON THRONE DO NOT TRUST PURE EVIL MURDERED MY ENTIRE FAMILY OH GODS THEY ARE NOT HUMAN AAAAAAGGHHHHH-"_

" _Upon entering the store, the owner immediately barraged me with_ _bilious_ _volley of insults. After I expressed my outrage he cast some spell that transported me to a screaming nightmare realm from which I barely escaped. When I returned I found him having congress with succubi. I implore all honest and pious people of Baldur's Gate to avoid this demonic establishment at all costs!"_

_Concerned,_

_Kalvi Torpela_

Duke Eltan set the parchment on his desk. "I'm telling you, Liia, there's been a distinct increase in the overall level of madness afflicting this city as of late. This 'iron crisis' and the rising tensions with Amn seem to have uncorked a kind of pent-up insanity that I scarcely knew existed before now. In the past few tendays I heard all manner of outrageous 'theories' and explanations for our predicament, ranging from a conspiracy of merchants to a dastardly plot by the Avariel."

Liia frowned. "The Avariel? The winged elves?"

"Yes, according to one bit of frothing-at-the-mouth lunacy that I received not too long ago." He sighed and turned to look out the window. "It pains me to say it, but I'm terribly disappointed in the people of this city. I would have thought that they'd have a little more reason and sense in their heads, and not go believing every silly little thing they hear. I'm sure you've witnessed your own share of total derangement trying to get to the bottom of things."

Of all the members sitting on the Council of Four, Liia Jannath was the only one he could trust to keep a cool head in times of trouble. She was, however, a practitioner of the Art, and Eltan could never quite bring himself to trust mages. They had the deplorable tendency to go insane or start dabbling in things that one ought not to dabble in, and he figured it was only a matter of time before Liia found herself either torn apart by a demon she had accidentally summoned or sucked into some sort of yawning interplanar abyss. Still, she was far more personable than that pompous ass Entar Silvershield.

Duke Eltan still cringed inwardly at the memory of that evening. He, along with the other Grand Dukes, had been invited to the formal debut of Entar's daughter, Skie. As much as Eltan loathed the man, propriety demanded that he attend, and he anticipated a night consisting of nothing more than sipping wine and offering bland pleasantries to the other guests. Fate had other things in mind, however, as Skie Silvershield seemed to have inherited her father's complete lack of sense. Committing one faux pas after another, whether it was spilling a drink on someone's lap or 'accidentally' insulting a nobleman by suggesting that he spent his leisure time trolling the dockside brothels, it was quite clear that her father either hadn't bothered to teach her the social graces or she was simply too daft to understand them. After an awkward half-hour or so Duke Belt had finally gotten fed up with her foolishness and told her, ' _My dear, you are simply not pretty enough to be this stupid.'_ "

Upon being confronted with this obvious but painful truth, Skie had immediately informed her father of Belt's unkind remark, and having had more than a few glasses of wine Entar immediately challenged Belt to a duel. When he refused, Entar drew his sword and began chasing Belt around the ballroom, quite clearly intent on murder, and all Duke Eltan could do was stand and watch as the two men upended tables, sent chandeliers crashing to the ground, and set the curtains on fire when one of them knocked over a candelabra. Eventually Duke Belt had grew tired of all the absurdity and called upon his magical abilities to turn Entar Silvershield to stone with a spell of petrification. 'He'll be quite all right after I cast Stone to Flesh on him,' he explained to the horrified guests, 'but perhaps spending a day or two as a statue will teach the old bugger a lesson.'

Quite predictably, Duke Belt and Duke Entar were no longer on speaking terms with one another.

"There is one explanation that's been circulating amongst the priests and clerics," she said cautiously. "I do not believe it myself, but a great many others do."

"Well, what do they say? Out with it!"

"They say that the iron crisis is just the prelude to an even greater cataclysm – the Bhaalspawn calamity foretold by Alaundo."

"Oh _please,_ " he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "No one will admit it, but Alaundo was a raving loon whose 'prophecies' are just so much prattle. I wouldn't believe a single word that comes out of the mouths of those Candlekeep monks. Spending so much with one's nose in a book does strange things to one's brain. No, I suspect our present crisis is due to more mundane factors. Scar informs me that he has enlisted the aid of a band of... _adventurers..._ the same ones who cleared out the mines in Nashkel. I'll be meeting with them tomorrow." Eltan picked up the letter from the desk. "Now, there is something I need you to do, Liia. Are you familiar with the store called _Sorcerous Sundries?_ "

She looked at him with an expression of puzzlement. "I have purchased magical items there on occasion. Why do you ask?"

"Well, just this morning I received this letter of complaint regarding the behaviour of the owner. Now, at first I thought it was just another example of the hysteria that's spreading across the Sword Coast, but my instincts are telling me that it's somehow significant. I mean, just _look_ at this handwriting. It's positively exquisite, and surely a madman would never possess this kind of penmanship. I want you to look into this establishment and report what you find. Should you encounter any demonic or fiendish activity, do not attempt to deal with it yourself. If there is indeed a hellmouth beneath the store it will likely require an entire contingent of Flaming Fists to close it up. They should be able to fill it with rocks, though a virgin sacrifice might be necessary."

"Are you sure, Eltan, that you have not been affected by this 'hysteria' as well?"

At that instant, it was as if a heavy fog had cleared from his mind, driven away by the piercing light of reason. "Oh my, I'm not sure what came over me. This whole crisis has put everyone on edge, and all it takes is just one spark to set the whole powder keg alight. Speaking of which, has there been any word on the cause of that terrible fire in the north-east quarter? I know that with this dry weather the whole city is like kindling, but something tells me it was no accident."

"No culprit has been identified, though the fire appears to have started in the _Blushing Mermaid._ If there are eyewitnesses, they aren't speaking. The clerics of Ilmater seem to think the fire was an act of divine retribution, and that the destruction of their temple was just another trial put before them by their god."

Eltan shook his head. "I suppose that's as good an explanation as any."

* * *

"I can't say I'm too upset about a bunch of dead doppelgängers, but I was hoping that your mission would be a little less bloody."

"You should know, Scar," said Talvi, "that I hold acts of violence in the very deepest contempt, but alas my berserker companion went...well...berserk."

"I don't like having a renegade under my command. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed without question. There's no place amongst my men for a warrior who can't control himself, and you'd do well to rid yourself of _him,_ " he said, gesturing at Minsc, "before you find yourself spitted upon his sword."

Boo squeaked loudly. "Minsc would never turn on his friends! My hamster shall keep me on the straight and narrow, though sometimes he is hard to hear over my battle cry. Eh, what's that, Boo? Again? How many times have I told you not to do your 'business' in my pack?"

"As I told you before, I don't trust berserker types," said Scar, "especially not one who talks to rodents."

For a moment Talvi was worried that this discourtesy might drive Minsc to violence, but to her great relief no fracas was forthcoming. "Boo is my faithful animal companion, without which no ranger can call himself a ranger! There is no need for these unkind words between two warriors! Tell me of the great battle whence you received such great scar upon your face."

Scar crossed his arms. "If you must know, I received it at the hands of a Rashemi berserker."

"I...uh...well...you..."

"If you what you say is true," Scar continued, turning to face the rest of the group, "then there's no telling how many of our city's institutions have been compromised. Duke Eltan is going to have a fit when he hears this."

"So what are you planning to do, then?" Jaheira asked. "The Iron Throne is clearly not content with merely slandering some trading coster. Their ambitions are plainly political."

"Is that your opinion, or the Harpers'?"

" _We,_ " she said, emphasising the word, "believe that their plan is to crown Sarevok Anchev, the adopted child of the family who owns the Iron Throne, as a Grand Duke. Since all the Grand Dukes are still living, their plan obviously involves murder."

Scar frowned. "Sarevok? The man's a brute, nothing more. I met him once, at a ball at the Ducal Palace, and the man decided to attend the event dressed from head to toe in the most absurd suit of armour I've ever seen. It was covered in spikes and horns and skulls, and it gave the guests a terrible fright. At first, at least; after they saw the emblem of Bhaal on his breastplate they all had a good laugh at him."

That sounded an awful lot like Gorion's killer, and in a heartbeat Talvi's mind was conjuring up all manner of hellish torments that she would inflict upon him when the time came. Being roasted alive in a lake of fire for all eternity, being torn apart by demons and then sewn back together, having nothing to read except _The Hexer_ from now until the end of the multiverse…

The realisation was sudden and horrifying. "Sarevok Anchev! I remember now where I first heard that name! He was offering praise to _The Hexer_ , his words written on the back cover for all to see!"

"What is ' _The Hexer?'_ " Scar asked, clearly puzzled.

"If you haven't heard of it, then consider yourself fortunate," she began. "It is a thoroughly dreadful adventuring novel, distinguished by its complete and utter lack of artistic worthiness. The protagonist is the ghastliest, most funereal and insensate pillock you'll ever have the displeasure of encountering on the page, and the world he inhabits is home only to bampots, tosspots, trollops, pudding heads, wagtails, harecops, jackanapes, scapegraces, pumpions, mooncalves, cockalorums, and ninnyhammers! Whoever would praise such offal is deserving of nothing less than a thorough flogging. I suggest you have Sarevok arrested and thrown in the oubliette forthwith. If his appalling taste with regards to the written words has not convinced you of his vileness, then know that he murdered my foster-father, and likely a great many other people as well."

Scar took a step back. "Yes...well...I'm afraid we'll need more evidence than your testimony. Duke Eltan himself wishes to meet with you on the morrow; I expect he'll have you investigate the Iron Throne." Suddenly he lowered his voice, as if he were trying to keep himself from being overheard. "One word of advice – don't trust anyone in this city. I'm not just talking about doppelgängers, I mean _everyone._ There's an epidemic of madness spreading through the city. I've seen honest, sensible people turn into raving lunatics proclaiming that the end times are upon us, that the hordes of the Abyss will soon be unleashed, and so on."

"I think you exaggerate, Scar," Jaheira replied. "Cities do much to wear on the sanity of their inhabitants, but I hardly think that-"

The heavy wooden doors behind them swung open, followed by a stream of thoroughly ungentlemanly language spoken in a high, nasally voice.

"Unhand me, fools! Know that you have earned the wrath of _Tiax,_ lord and conqueror of the Toril!"

The dirty, shabbily-dressed gnome kicked and thrashed about as the two heavily-armoured soldiers of the Flaming Fist dragged him inside. Talvi found it hard to tell one gnome from another on the rare occasion she encountered one of their kind, but there was no mistaking this particular member of that race. There was a glint of insanity in his eyes, the sort of mental perversion possessed only by geniuses...or by followers of Cyric.

"This gnome was harassing people just outside our gates," said one of the men. "We ought to lock him up before he hurts someone."

"Grovel at my feet, for your doom is at hand, foolish mortals! Tiax's conquest of all is nigh! Repent, and you shall be spared! Resist, and you shall be destroyed!"

Talvi wasn't going to tolerate this kind of nonsense in her presence. "What a stupid individual this gnome is! Look there, he's got the holy symbol of the Prince of Lies around his neck! Why was he even allowed in the city in the first place?"

The gnome craned his head to look at her as the two men continued to drag him along. "Elf! Elf! Betrayer! Deceiver! A race of fragments, broken and scattered across the Realms! You all will be crushed beneath the heel of the mighty Tiax! All shall kneel before me and pay tribute, _just...you...wait_ _!_ They call me mad, I call them foolish and stupid! I know you better than you know yourselves! There is nothing that escapes my eyes! You will tremble before my might, and flee before your undoing!" He spat upon the floor. "Those who mock me shall be the first to taste my wrath! Their flesh shall be flayed from their bones and their eyes shall stud my crown! I will become _godlike!_ "

"You see what I mean?" said Scar. "Another soul lost to lunacy. You'd do best to be on your guard, lest this madness be catching."

* * *

Ulraunt tossed and turned about in his bed, his fears and anxieties tormenting him like swarm of gadflies. The Iron Throne and Knights of the Shield had decided to use _his_ library fortress to hold their meetings, an utter affront to his scholarly sensibilities. But they had fulfilled all the conditions for admittance, and the Watchers would need more than his mere suspicions to have them banished.

But oh, how he loathed those money-grubbing swine! What he wouldn't give to have them all subjected to a thorough and violent thrashing! And why _shouldn't_ he be allowed to do as much? He was the Keeper of the Tomes, after all, and sometimes academic integrity demanded a good old-fashioned bit of brouhaha now and then. _Their kind ought to beaten, broken, and driven across the land,_ he thought.

All this, however, was not the root of his distress. Rather, it was the knowledge that, at some point in the future, Talvi Korpela was sure to return to this place. As if that weren't bad enough, the tome that those Iron Throne blackguards submitted, a treatise on the movements of heavenly bodies in Realmspace, had been authored by someone named Suvi Korpela, and Ulraunt was convinced that she was some relative of that infernal elven girl who made his life so miserable over the past twenty years. _Korpela...a name that I shall speak of with hatred for the rest of my mortal span!_ How clearly he remembered Talvi's countless transgressions, her endless complaints and criticisms, and her appalling treatment of the noble Chanters! But despite all this she would return, with a tome of great value in hand, and by the ancient rules of Candlekeep the Watchers would have no choice but allow her entrance.

Ulraunt threw off the bedsheets and sat upright. Why should he simply accept her return as a _fait accompli?_ To hell with the ancient rules! Why should they admit someone to this library fortress simply because they had an expensive book with them? Did a person's _character_ not count for anything?

He sat himself at his desk, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and began drafting a new set of entry regulations. The changes would understandable enough: the Keeper of the Tomes would have the right to refuse entry to anyone he deemed unworthy, and a list would be kept indicating which individuals were to be barred from Candlekeep for their rest of their lives. Obviously the name "Talvi Korpela" would be first on the list, followed by "Imoen."

After he finished hastily scribbling down the proposed changes, Ulraunt smiled to himself in satisfaction. Maybe now he'd be able to sleep in peace.

* * *

As evening descended, Talvi and her companions decided that they ought to find a new place to spend the night. In actuality, it was Jaheira who suggested it, informing her that in all likelihood the Iron Throne would have people searching for them, and that they might better escape detection by never sleeping in the same place twice.

"Before we go looking for lodging, I suggest we find a reputable drinking establishment. I sense that there is some quality wine to be found in that building over there," Talvi said, pointing to a rather nondescript tavern situated near the south-western city wall. "I fear that, as one travels northwards, the basic goodness of wine diminishes. Baldur's Gate might be the very last city on the Sword Coast where one can find when that meets even the most basic standards of drinkability."

"What? How can you 'sense' where there's wine?" Imoen asked, exasperated.

"All elves can sense the presence of good wine. 'Tis a gift from Lady Goldheart, who wishes us to be ever joyous and carefree."

"You're making that up."

"I am not, I assure you. It's just something we don't usually share with non-elves, otherwise we would find ourselves hounded and harangued by drunkards everywhere we go."

Imoen thought it over for a moment. "All right, but let's be careful. I _know_ someone's gonna hassle us the moment we walk in there."

The tavern was a small, unpretentious watering hole, presently populated by a number of off-duty Flaming Fist mercenaries. A small counter stood by the far wall, manned by a wizened old bartender who looked as though he were about to collapse from exhaustion. Talvi's eyes, however, were drawn the kegs and bottles of wine stored behind him, more specifically the distinctive squat bottles of Arabellan Dry. As always, her instincts had proven correct.

Talvi inhaled sharply, trying to get a feel for the locale via its scent (this was another innate elven ability, or so she thought). There were odours of smoke, roasting meat, bubbling stew, and, of course, the faint bouquet of fine wine lurking somewhere in the distance, and she detected subtle notes of oak, vanilla, blackberries, and spices that defined the aroma Arabellan Dry. She could only imagine how much intense they would be once she actually had a glass in front of her.

Yet her nose picked up something else lingering in the air, something far more malevolent. There was a distinct reek of madness lingering in the room, a dreadful sort of fanaticism possessed by those who had embraced a cause and then lost all sense of perspective. A putrid melange of roiled brains, mindless zealotry, and rabid devotion that told the story of a man who had once acted with only the noblest of intentions, but who now acted in thrall to darker forces. Yet what could be the source of this mania, this obliquity?

The answer was a tall, muscular man wearing a suit of polished plate mail, who was now walking straight towards her, his violent intent manifest in every stride and step. There could be no mistaking the mad glint in his eyes, and Talvi knew at once that this was a _proper_ lunatic – someone who long since said his farewells to sanity and had gone sprinting, not walking, in the opposite direction. Already she a dozen arcane incantations waiting on the tip of her tongue, just waiting for moment when they would be unleashed.

"I sense the vile taint within you, evil one!" the man shouted, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the tavern's patrons. "I cannot allow you or your wretched to threaten the good people of Baldur's Gate. Have at you!"

Before he could draw his weapon, another man, likewise clad in armour, stood up and approached the group. He was a younger, square-jawed sort, with the steady gaze of a righteous warrior and a look of pure determination on his face. "I won't let you hurt these innocent travellers, Phandalyn. Return to your seat."

"Oh shove off, Ajantis! We both know that _I_ am the greater paladin. While you were off hunting footpads and brigands – in completely the wrong place, I might add – _I_ was cleansing this city of filth! Did you know that there was a man on the east side who has been consistently lying to the tax collectors for years about how much he earned? His greed proved to be he is undoing when I took every last coin in his coffers! Or shall I speak of the innkeeper by the Hall of Wonders, who praises his brews as 'the finest ale from here to Luskan?" Well, I've travelled the lands from here to Luskan, and I say his brews are unworthy of such acclamations! For his insolence I drowned him in a vat of of his own vile concoction. And then...then I witnessed the most flagrant offence to all that is good and holy, the most wicked and debased act of evil I have ever seen: a baker selling day-old bread that he _claimed_ was baked fresh this day! For that I put had his shop to the torch and laughed as the flames consumed him. May he find no peace in this life or the next!"

"What is this foolishness?" Minsc cried. "This man is silly! One fights evil on the battlefield, not in bakeries! Methinks he has taken one too many blows to the head!"

Talvi tried to step between the two men. "Listen, you knobheads, you both need to stop this before someone gets hurt!"

The innkeeper, however, disagreed quite vehemently. "Now 'old on! 'Dis 'ere tavern's gone too long without some good fightin'! If dey wants to fights, den I say, we let em' fights!"

Weapons drawn, the two paladins began circling each other. "Tell me, Phandalyn, can you even remember how you were before this madness consumed your mind? You've become the very thing you once swore to destroy."

"And _you,_ Ajantis, it is your laxity that allows evil to grow and fester! When I stand before Helm, I shall not be found wanting. Can you say the same?"

"Helm guides my blade...straight into your rotten, corrupted heart!"

"Helpmate of evil! Confederate of slothfulness!"

"By my honour, Phandalyn, I shall strike you down! And my honour is my _life._ "

"It shall soon be your _death!_ _WAAAAAAAGH!_ "

Talvi darted over to the counter just as the two paladins crossed swords. "You've got to do something!" she pleaded to the innkeeper. "Those two men are going to kill each other!"

"'Oy, dis 'ere's gonna be a _proppa_ fight, see, what wiv all da blood and guts! If you wants to lay yer bets on da winna, den now is da time."

_What a slovenly accent,_ she thought. "You're letting people place wagers on these men's lives? What sort of monster are you?"

"An' what do I care 'bout a bunch'a pallydin tin 'eads? Now bugger off, ya sissy elf!"

The two paladins continued their scrap in the middle of the tavern, barking insults at one another, which had now degenerated from deriding each others' righteousness to disparaging remarks about each others' parentage and sexual capacity.

"Jaheira, you've got to put a stop to this!" said Talvi after returning to her companions. "You seem to have a more commanding presence than I; surely you can bring order to this madhouse?"

Despite the chaos unfolding before them, Jaheira remained oddly composed, perhaps even resigned. "Khalid has gone to summon the Flaming Fist. I doubt very much these sorts of altercations are a rarity in this place."

"'Tis true that those who call themselves 'paladins' are oft more trouble than they are worth," Dynaheir added. "A warrior of Rashemen doth have more sense, so long as though as he be properly guided."

Meanwhile the fight between the two paladins continued unabated. "Heretic!" screamed Phandalyn, bringing his sword down in a vicious overhead blow.

"Blasphemer!" yelled Ajantis, raising his shield in defence.

"Schismatic!"

"Anathema!"

"Arse-bandit!"

"Craven whoreson bastard!"

"Foetid guttersnipe!"

"Goat-ploughing Amnish bumjaw!"

The tavern patrons had formed a circle around the two paladins, with money rapidly changing hands as they laid their wagers on the outcome. Talvi watched it all unfold with growing disgust, convinced more than ever than the city of Baldur's Gate was many things, but most of all it was a tremendous disappointment. It was not the dreary stone architecture, the total disregard for the beauty of nature, or even the unpleasant but unidentifiable odour that hung about air that was so distasteful to her. No, it was the undercurrent of violence that was lurking beneath it all, as though some great and malevolent entity was slowly and subtly corrupting the inhabits.

She was jarred from her thoughts by the entrance of a half-dozen burly Flaming Fist mercenaries. Almost immediately the tavern fell silent, and even the two paladins stopped what they were doing. Khalid quietly stepped in behind them, and then meekly secluded himself in one of the dark corners of the room.

The man in charge of the Flaming Fists (or whom Talvi assumed was in charge, judging by the ornate plume on his helm) stepped forward and shook his head. "This is the third time this month, Berwick," he said, adopting the tone of a parent scolding a misbehaving child. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear the last time, but you can't hold pit fights in your establishment! It's against the law, Berwick, which means if you keep this up you'll be rotting in prison. Surely even someone as stupid as you can understand that."

"Now wait jus' a minute!" the innkeeper said, slamming his palms on the counter. "Dere be so many taverns in dis 'ere city dat I gots no way to compete 'cept by bein' da place where da best fightin' is. Dese naff tin 'eads here, dey knew what dey wuz gettin' into when dey stepped in 'ere."

The Flaming Fist guardsman glared at the two paladins, who now bore the expression of children with their hands caught in a cookie jar. "You paladins! How many times do I have to tell you that you are _not_ the law around here? If you want to go gallivanting across the Realms smiting evil and whatnot, then you can do it _outside_ the city."

Phandalyn pointed at Ajantis. "He started it."

"What? No I didn't!"

"Yes you did!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

After a several more back-and-forth exchanges like this, the guardsman stepped between the two bickering paladins. "We can decide who started it once you've both been clapped in irons. Either come with us peacefully, or I'll have my men _drag_ you out."

Talvi turned around to face Imoen. "Now you see why so few elves walk the path of the paladin," she explained. "The rigidity of their thinking tends to lead to sudden outbreaks of dementia like this. I suspect these two men will turn thoroughly evil at some point on account of their complete lack of an inner life. Or perhaps they simply lack for wine. Yes, that must be it...a deficiency of wine invariably leads to insanity. I think I have uncovered an entirely new avenue of scholarly investigation!"

Once had Talvi obtained a bottle of Arabellan Dry, she sat herself at one of the tables and immediately began parsing the bottle label. "You see here," she said to no one in particular, "the vintners have avoided the common misstep of writing the tasting notes on the bottle label, and thus biasing the drinker towards one interpretation or another. Also take note of the year: 1360 DR, the Year of the Turret. In this year the great red dragon Klauth, a thoroughly vile creature even by the abysmal standards of his kind, was gravely wounded by a trio of dragons, two white and one green. Though there are no first-hand accounts of it, it must have been a spectacular battle indeed, and I should think that some of the power and puissance of that mighty clash has made its way into the bottle."

"It's just wine," said Imoen with a shrug.

Talvi stared at her icily. "Have you not been paying attention to anything I've been saying?"

"No, not really."

"Wine is never simply wine. No, it is the concentrated hopes and dreams of all those wonderful souls who toil day and night in its production." She began carefully pouring it into her cup. " _Behold_ its beautiful ruby hue, most pleasing to Lady Goldheart! _Savour_ its divine redolence in all its manifold ways! Don't tell me human senses are so dulled you cannot experience even a fraction of this!"

"It's still just wine."

She ignored her and took a sip, pursing her lips and inhaling in order to introduce a little air into her mouth. "Note the lively opening," she said after finishing her first taste. "It is like a playful nymph enticing a young man into the woods, but the body of the wine suggests that is far more to her than outward beauty. In fact, she is quite capable of holding forth on any number of subjects, such as astronomy, philosophy, history, literature, and the natural sciences. Lurking behind all this are subtle notes of anise and lavender, skulking about like a Shadow Thief on a mission to assassinate a beautiful young countess, but after climbing through her window he finds himself unable to carry out the loathsome deed, so captivated is he by her immense beauty. She, in turn, finds his roguish charm irresistible, and so the two spend the night making vigorous love to each other. As for the finish of the wine, well, I will simply say that it knows not to overstay its welcome, but like a departing lover its leaves one with an overwhelming feeling of sorrow, tempered only by the knowledge that the object one's desire might return some other day. Now, this all merely the first tasting; I fully expect that this wine has yet to reveal but a miniscule fraction of its character."

"Oh my," said Khalid, "I've never h-h-heard someone d-d-describe wine like that..."

Imoen rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to her, Khalid. She gets all funny like this every time she has a drink."

"There is a question that has been lingering on my mind for some time, Khalid," Talvi asked after a few more sips. "I don't wish to imply anything, but what was it that compelled you to walk the path of the warrior?"

His wife answered readily for him, as if she had been anticipating this question for some time. "It was not dear Khalid's first choice, I can tell you that much. He was the youngest child in a large family of merchants, and his father preferred to lavish his attention Khalid's brothers-"

"H-h-half brothers, dear..."

"Yes, Khalid was born out of wedlock and could not inherit any of his father's estate, so he enlisted in the amlakkar. He did not feel as though there were any other options."

"It s-s-seemed like a g-g-good idea at the time!"

This was not enough to satisfy Talvi's curiosity. "But why choose that path? Would not the path of the arcane, or even the path of the merchant, be better suited to him?"

"Magic is so d-d-dreadfully frightening," Khalid answered. "And I'm just h-h-hopeless with money. Sometimes I think that I'm no g-g-good at anything..."

Jaheira laid her hand on his shoulder. "Come, my dear, there is no need for this."

"I still think you ought to look into the arcane path," Talvi said. "Magic is not so terribly frightening once one has grasped the basic concepts. It is only perilous should one follow the path of the loathsome _sorcerer._ Sorcerers, being the spherical bastards they are-"

Imoen raised an eyebrow. " _Spherical bastards?_ "

"They're spherical bastards, because they're bastards no matter which way you look at them."

* * *

Duke Eltan was not exactly what Talvi expected.

She had in mind someone akin to those insufferably pompous noblemen who frequented Candlekeep, being dressed preposterously and speaking with some absurdly affected accent. Instead, she found a warrior, dressed in full plate and with the scarred visage of one who has lived through countless battles. Exactly _why_ he was wearing his armour when no battle seemed forthcoming was the foremost question on Talvi's mind, though she knew better than to express her curiosity. She was sure the Grand Duke would take it as some kind of affront to his manhood.

The room was small, dark, and completely devoid of any adornment or decoration. It reminded Talvi very much of Reevor's quarters back in Candlekeep, and the memory of that surly dwarf sent a pang of homesickness through her breast. The two had never gotten along – his dwarven mind being wholly alien to her own – but she had always taken great pleasure in winding him up.

"What is that unholy noise from downstairs?" Eltan asked.

"That would be the prisoners, Your Grace," Scar replied. "Usually they are not this... _agitated_...but this lot appears to be crazier than most. My men are doing their best to keep order, of course, but that's been proving rather difficult as of late. One of the prisoners, a gnome who calls himself 'Tiax', has appointed himself the leader of the bunch and is trying to incite a revolt."

"Have you tried flogging him?" the duke suggested.

"I have, Your Grace, but the short stature of gnomes makes whipping them rather difficult."

Eltan looked up at Talvi and her companions. "So you are the adventurers who have been causing so much trouble for the Iron Throne. I don't believe we've been introduced."

"I am Talvi Korpela, arcane scholar of Candlekeep. This is Imoen, Khalid, and Jaheira; the lady in purple is Dynaheir and the man with the rodent is Minsc."

"'Talvi Korpela?' That name sounds familiar for some reason...anyway, I suppose we should get straight to the matter at hand. As I'm sure you've guessed, the Iron Throne, their attempts at misdirection notwithstanding, is the obvious culprit behind the iron crisis. The evidence we have, unfortunately, is entirely circumstantial. That's where you come in. I need someone to infiltrate their headquarters and obtain proof of their involvement with the caravan raids. You'll be looking for any incriminating documents, ledgers, or correspondences; if there's one thing those merchant types love more than gold, it's writing everything every down. I don't know where exactly where they would keep these sorts of things, but I would hazard a guess that they're upon the upper levels."

"And remember, this is to be a _covert_ operation," Scar added.

"That's right. I don't want you coming back here drenched in blood. I know you adventurer types like to stab first and ask questions later, but if I find out that you've turned the whole place into a charnel house, well, I'll be left with no choice to disavow all knowledge of your actions. Try not to get killed yourselves, though, and if you succeed then I promise that you will be handsomely rewarded. So, what say you?"

"We'll do it, but first we'll need some sort pretence for entering the Iron Throne's estate. I'm afraid I know very little about these kinds of moneymaking affairs; such things are deeply offensive to the elven soul."

"I'm afraid you'll be on your own for that. We know very little about this organisation, and even the Harpers haven't been able to tell us much. But you've proven yourselves quite resourceful in your earlier dealings with the Iron Throne, so I have no doubt you'll think of something. If not, then I pray the goods are merciful and you do not die _too_ horribly."

Jaheira made her displeasure at the duke's attitude clear. "For someone sending us on such an important errand, you do not seem overly concerned with our well-being."

"I've known more than a few adventurers in my time, and if they expected a long and healthy life then they should have chosen another profession. Now, if that's all...by the gods, Scar! Can't you do something about that horrendous racket? It sounds as though the prisoners are tearing up the place! Maybe you ought to give them all a dose of black lotus extract; that ought to calm them down a bit."

"Your Grace, black lotus is illegal in Baldur's Gate. The Flaming Fist broke up a smuggling ring just this Tarsakh."

"Then take what you've confiscated and distribute it to the prisoners. Must I spell everything out for you?"

"I would, Your Grace, but the supplies we seized disappeared mysteriously a tenday ago. The evidence points to Entar Silvershield, but as a Grand Duke he's almost untouchable."

Eltan clenched his fist and growled. "Entar...if I had my way I'd have him stripped of his titles and looked in the dungeon along with all the rest of these maniacs. Bloody awful person, that man. He's not a 'grand' duke or even a 'good' duke. At best he's an 'okay if you're into that sort of thing' duke. I know it reflects poorly on me to say this, but I really hope someone sticks a blade down his gullet."

* * *

"Ulraunt, what's the meaning of this?"

He eyes moved across the Great Readers standing in a semicircle around him. "What do you mean, 'what's the meaning of this?' It should be self-evident that this is my proposed amendment to the entry regulations of our library fortress."

Tethtoril gave a heavy sigh. "We know that, Ulraunt. I don't wish to suggest that you've succumbed to the ravages of senescence, but you seemed to have forgotten that any change to the laws and customs of Candlekeep requires-"

"-requires a majority vote of the Great Readers, yes I know! But this is far too important a matter to be left to your dithering and bickering. There's an obvious defect in the existing regulations in that they posit no requirements for the _character_ of an admittee. Any fool with enough gold in his purse can purchase a tome of great value, but that only proves their wealth, not worth!"

"That may be true, Ulraunt, but as I've just said, any changes require a majority vote of-"

He spat in rage. "Damn it all! Those Iron Throne thugs tramp through our hallowed halls and we do nothing to stop them! I think they ought to be killed."

"They've committed no transgressions, Ulraunt, and they fulfilled all requirements for entry. Now let us speak no more of this foolishness."

Ulraunt locked his gaze upon the First Reader. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you, Tethtoril? You've always been after my office, your pretensions of loyalty aside. You've done nothing except place every conceivable obstacle in my way! You and the rest of the Great Readers have continually thwarted my intentions time and again, and I will tolerate it no longer!"

"Are you talking about your proposal to expand the ranks of the Chanters?" said one of the Readers. "I thought we made it clear that it was completely unnecessary."

"Leave the Chanters out of this!" Ulraunt snapped.

"And let us not forget," another Reader said, "you suggestion of banning all works of Volothamp Geddarm."

"That man's a no-talent nincompoop whose wretched scribblings aren't fit to grace our shelves. That much should be obvious, shouldn't it? If we left this place up to you imbeciles these halls would filled with nothing but utter dreck and drivel." He looked back at the First Reader. "But you'd be perfectly content with that, wouldn't you, Tethtoril? You'd burn this place to the ground if you thought you could catch me in the flames."

"I think all that chanting has addled your brain," one of the Readers remarked offhandedly.

"I said, _leave the Chanters out of this!_ "

Tethtoril turned around and began walking away. "I suggest you return to your chambers, Ulraunt, and in the morning we'll forget we ever had this discussion."

"Don't you walk away from me! I can see the ambition in your beady little eyes, Tethtoril. You're just waiting for the moment when I drop dead so you can become Keeper of the Tomes. Well, I won't let you! I'll outlive you for no other reason than sheer spite! I'd embrace lichdom if that's what it took to keep you from taking my position!"

There were some hushed whispering from the Readers, no doubt questioning his state of mind. Tethtoril merely shook his head. "If that is all, Ulraunt..."

"You're nothing but a treacherous nest of vipers, all of you! Need I list all the occasions on which you've opposed the betterment of Candlekeep, for no other reason than pure obstinance? You opposed the expansion the rare books room. You opposed the pay cuts for the Watchers. You've repeatedly opposed the removal of that obscene painting of Gorion's Ward – insufferable little harlot that she is – in defiance of all that is good and decent. I should never have let Gorion bring those bastard children into Candlekeep. This is a repository of knowledge, not an orphanage!"

"Your grudge against that girl is as tedious as it is perverse," said one of the Readers. "It is absurd that you'd hold a grudge for so long when all she did was question the purpose of the Chanters-"

Ulraunt stamped his foot on the floor. " _Leave...the Chanters...out of this!_ "

The Readers departed in contemptuous silence, leaving Ulraunt fuming in rage. He stormed upstairs to his bedchamber, then marched over to the corner where there stood a large, unadorned wooden chest bound in iron. It was not only locked (with a key that Ulraunt kept on his person at all times) but trapped as well – anyone foolish to open it without disabling the wards would find himself blasted into dust. Disabling the wards involved flawlessly declaming a 500-word incantation in a long-forgotten language known only to five other people in Faerûn, followed by reciting the prophecies of Alaundo in their entirety. The slightest error during either of these processes would result in one's immediate annihilation.

After completing the necessary rituals, Ulraunt opened the chest and removed the sole item within – a long, ornate staff covered in arcane sigils. One end had been fixed with a large, multifaceted gem that glowed with a faint blue light, merely hinting at the tremendous magical might within, while the other had been carved into the shape of a flame and decorated with gems. It was not overly ornate compared to other wizards' staves, but as any learned practitioner of the Art knew, it was the simple and unadorned artefacts that held the greatest power. Merely holding the staff imbued one with a feeling of immense potential, and its name – the Staff of the Magi – so greatly understated the staff's capabilities that it almost seemed like it had been coined in jest.

Those Iron Throne poltroons would be here for the next few days or so. And when they least expected it, he would strike with the fury of ten thousand demon lords.


	16. Thou Shalt Kill

Chapter 16 – Thou Shalt Kill

* * *

"I dare say we are entering into the most perilous place we have yet...errm...entered into," Talvi said, gazing up at the imposing tower that was the Iron Throne's headquarters. "We should endeavour to act as though we know what we are doing at all times. Any hesitation or displays of jitteriness on our part will endanger our charade."

Khalid was trembling with anxiety. "Oh d-d-dear, perhaps I should w-w-wait outside?"

Talvi ignored his complaints. "Now, we will need some sort of pretence for visiting this place. Hmm, let me think...ah ha! We shall present ourselves as an envoy from Lord Nasher and the Lords' Alliance, explaining that our cities have come under threat by a powerful orc chieftain named...well...what would a powerful orc chieftain call himself? Probably 'Gorgutz Bonesmasha' or something like that. Furthermore, we will suggest that that the Host Tower of the Arcane is involved somehow, that a new overwizard has arisen to the West Tower – let us call him Set Abominae or Lord Curse or something equally malevolent in tone – whose sheer malice and malignity is far in excess of his fellows. Thus we have come to the Iron Throne seeking to purchase a large quantity of iron ore, as we fear that the iron plague afflicting Baldur's Gate will soon spread north. Now this is the vital part: we must act as though we barely stand to remain in the presence of these grasping, edacious grifters and entrepreneurs. If we appear too eager to engage in dealings with them, they may grow suspicious.

"They may ask us why we have chosen to come them for iron, as opposed to one of the guilds of Waterdeep, such as the Most Careful Order of Skilled Smiths and Metalforgers. In that case we shall answer that relations with Waterdeep have deteriorated over the past few months in the wake of a terrible scandal in which a member of the Neverwinter Nine was caught in bed with the wife of the Open Lord. In retaliation, the Lords of Waterdeep have forbidden their cities' merchants and traders from engaging in commerce with the city of Neverwinter. They may ask, as a means of ascertaining the truthfulness of our tale, for the name of this incontinent man of the Nine, in which case we shall give a name wholly of our own invention. When they respond that they have never heard of this personage, we shall explain that he suffered an untimely demise a tenday ago in a horrendous horticulture-related accident described by witnesses as 'gruesome, yet strangely hilarious.' This is where Khalid's tremulousness shall come into play; we will say that he was the one who first stumbled upon the mangled body, and he has suffered a terrible affliction of the nerves ever since."

Imoen stared at her. "Did you come up with all that just now?"

"Of course I did, Imoen. You should have realised by now how swiftly the elven mind reckons. Now let us not waste any more time."

Walking into the headquarters of the Iron Throne was very much akin to stepping into a dragon's lair, Talvi thought. They stood before a vast, cavernous atrium, their footsteps on the hard tile echoing loudly. The floor was blue-green marble, polished to such a sheen that one could see one's reflection in it, but then Talvi noticed that it was badly gouged in several parts, as if some hooligan in heavy armour had gone stomping about the place. More worrying was a large crack on the floor near the entrance, suggesting that something (or someone) had been thrown from the upper levels.

She had no more time to judge the architectural worthiness of the building, as a portly, ruddy-cheeked man was running, gasping and wheezing, towards them.

"Get out!" he gasped. "Get out while you still can!"

"Now wait just a minute!" Talvi said. "What is going on here?"

"Madness and death is what is going on here! Whatever promise of coin drew you to this place is not worth facing the horrors I have seen."

"Horrors? _What_ horrors? What are you talking about?"

"Sarevok's lackeys, on the fifth floor. Aye, a more vicious band of cutthroats and villains you'll never see this side of Sembia. I don't know for what foul purpose they came here, but they are not here on business, I can tell you that much! No, they are _waiting_ for someone. Now leave me to go; I'll not tarry another second in this place!"

He ran for the door fast as his legs could carry him (which was not terribly fast), leaving the group standing alone in the immense hall. "I wonder where everyone's gotten to?" Talvi wondered aloud.

"Sarevok has made this place quite inhospitable, it would seem," Jaheira said. "I suggest we-"

Before she could finish there came a terrible cry from somewhere off in the distance. It seemed to come from the stairs leading down into the basement, so Talvi started cautiously moving in that direction. "Keep your weapons ready. Who knows what depravity we may face?"

When she approached the stairs, she detected a faint scent in the air that she could not identify. From below there came the subdued sounds of laughter and merriment.

The smell grew stronger as Talvi descended the steps. It was difficult to describe, being a mixture of sweat and a pungent, bitter-sweet odour. When she turned the corner and stepped into the basement itself she was confronted with a scene out of her nightmares. The air was filled with smoke, and numerous guards and merchants sat slumped against the crates and barrels, each one with a pipe in hand and gazing out from a world that only they inhabited. The tops of the crates were scattered about the floor, leaving little question as to what had transpired.

"By the gods!" Talvi exclaimed. "The depravity!"

"Why? What's happening?" Imoen asked, trying to see past her.

"No! You must avert your eyes! It's too depraved!"

Dynaheir took one whiff of the foul air and understood immediately what was going on. "The black lotus...the Red Wizards of Thay have their slaves become hooked on this vile weed so that they may be kept...docile."

No one in the basement paid any attention to them. Talvi was about to turn around and leave when an idea entered into her head. "If what was told to us by that terror-stricken individual at the door was true, then Sarevok must have instructed his lackeys to wait for us on the fifth floor. I would rather not face them in bloody combat, so perhaps we might use this 'black lotus' to stupefy them somehow."

Holding the sleeve of her robe against her nose, Talvi walked over to one of the crates. Inside were a number of burlap sacks filled with dried petals, so she took one of them and passed it to Imoen. "I dare say these wretched souls are truly unfortunate if they need _this_ to transform their minds. They must truly lack any form of inner life; what other explanation is there? Now let us begone from this place before its stink is permanently embedded in our clothes."

The second floor was very much like the first, being almost deserted, and with the same curious scratches and gouges on the floor. A solitary guard was patrolling the area, and when he caught sight of the group he let out a yelp of fright.

"Wh...what are you doing here?" he stammered, reaching his sword.

"We're here to meet with Sarevok's associates," Talvi answered. "Perhaps you might direct us to them?"

"Sarevok? Damn him! Whatever your dealings are with him, they aren't worth whatever coin he's promised you. Get out now, while you still can, stranger."

"Look, we aren't from here. Tell us about Sarevok."

The guard glanced left and right, looking to see if anyone were within earshot. "He's a real mean cuss, I'll tell you that! Spends all his time in that infernal armour of his, all covered in skulls and spikes. It's got Bhaal's sigil stamped on the breastplate, in case there was any doubt about what kind of man he is. When he gets mad, people die. He throws them off the rooftop, throws them from the windows, and sometimes he just kills them with his bare hands. His room is on the top floor, but the only person I've ever seen go in there is that Kara-Turan strumpet of his. Now please, leave me be!"

He turned and walked away, leaving Talvi with a dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Did you hear what he said? It is as I suspected – Sarevok must be one of Bhaal's brood. It is highly likely that he, like all other Bhaalspawn, is utterly unable to resist the compulsion to kill at random."

The third floor looked to be a dining room, of sorts, with several long tables arranged side-by-side. Candles were lit and plates were set out, as if a grand feast were forthcoming, but the floor appeared to be totally deserted. Talvi wondered why there were not more guards present, and the only explanation was that Sarevok had anticipated her coming to this place and was trying to lure her onto the highest floor, where there would be no easy escape from his minions.

Minsc, spying the food laid out on the table, decided to help himself to a leg of ham.

"Now is not the time, Minsc," chided Dynaheir.

"True warriors cannot go into battle without food in their bellies! Right, Boo?"

"Keep thy voice down!" she hissed. "Dost thou want-"

A trio of men suddenly appeared from one of the side rooms, brandishing swords and maces. Their surcoats bore the insignia of the Iron Throne, and unlike the guards they had encountered earlier, they looked like they were itching for a scrap. Talvi recognised the look in their eyes at once: the look of men driven by economic circumstance to take whatever job was available, and thus found themselves living lives of quiet desperation, struggling daily with the soul-crushing routine of work, desperately hoping to experience one moment of joy before they shuffled off this mortal coil.

"What are you doing here? This area's off-limits!" sneered one of the guards, who looked positively delighted at the thought of throwing his weight around. "I don't recognise you!"

"Of course you don't," Talvi said. "We're emissaries from Sembia. Didn't you get the word?"

"We weren't told to expect any visitors. Matter of fact, we were told to watch out for troublemakers. And you look like a troublemaker."

That was just the opening she was looking for. "Do you know what is going on in the basement? All your fellow guards are pushing the boundaries of consciousness and thought via the wonder of the black lotus, yet here you are, guarding an empty room. Perhaps you are wondering why that is?"

"Um...why?"

"They told you to guard this dining chamber simply for the purpose of getting rid of you. They have no desire to see you ruining their fun – they consider you a tremendous bore, an insufferable kill-joy, and a miserable dullard besides – and at this very moment they are all having a great laugh at your expense. Go have a look if you don't believe me. Surely you must have noticed that unholy reek wafting up the stairs."

"So _that's_ what that smell was all about," said one of the guard's companions. "The fools, they've gotten into our own supply! When Sarevok hears about this-"

He did not finish the sentence, but the look of pure horror on his face said everything that needed to be said.

"If you deliver a suitably vicious punishment to them, then I'm sure Sarevok will forgive your momentary lapse of watchfulness," Talvi said. "Now if you'll excuse us..."

The three guards, terrified completely out of their wits at the mere thought of enduring Sarevok's wrath, quickly turned around made their way downstairs.

Upon reaching the fourth floor, Talvi brought the group to a stop. The stairs above led up to the fifth floor, and who could say what sort of bloodthirsty personages Sarevok had assembled there? Since leaving Candlekeep she had been harassed and harangued by every sort of blackguard and brigand imaginable, and given her stubborn refusal to die, she could only assume that those who awaited her on the fifth floor had to be the worst of the lot.

"Listen very carefully Imoen. I need you to go upstairs, as stealthily as you are able, and report back what you see. You are capable of this, aren't you?"

"Of _course_ I am! It's just like stealing from Ulraunt's study, I'll bet!"

Imoen cheerfully headed up the stairs, trying to keep footsteps as quiet as possible on the hard tile floor. She was right, this place _did_ remind her of Candlekeep in a way, with its solemn stone décor, but Candlekeep was a place of learning and erudition, while this was little more than a miserable hive of profiteering and avarice. It had not always been so, she reckoned, as the décor and aesthetics of the building were too dignified and austere for something like the Iron Throne.

A half-minute later Imoen returned, looking quite distraught. "There's six of 'em up there," she said quietly, "and they look _mean._ "

"Did you happen to notice any hearths or fireplaces around?"

Imoen instantly intuited Talvi's plan. "Yeah, but there's no way to reach them without being seen. There's no shadows or places to hide anywhere."

"Then I have no choice but to employ a spell of invisibility. I shall go upstairs, deposit the sack of black lotus petals into the fire, and gods willing, the smoke will benumb their minds so thoroughly that they shall not be roused from their stupor for at least a tenday."

"Are you certain this is wise?" Jaheira said. "An invisibility spell can easily broken by sudden movements, and it will not muffle any noise you make."

"I'm aware of that," she answered, annoyed, "but what other alternative do we have? Duke Eltan made it quite clear that we aren't here to engage in senseless violence."

Without waiting for a response Talvi began casting the spell, effortlessly shaping the skeins and threads of the Weave into a coherent surge of magical energy. Invisibility was not a difficult spell; in fact, it was usually one of the first spells novice mages taught themselves (no doubt for the way it opened up all manner of opportunities for skulduggery and hijinks). Though the spell's origin was lost in the mists of time, it was an oft-recited tale that it was the Eaerlanni elves who first devised the magical means to turn themselves invisible. However, while the spell rendered one's _body_ invisible, it did not do the same for one's clothes, thus it required the caster to be naked in order to be effective. For elves, who held no taboo against nudity, this was merely an inconvenience, but for the prudish Netherese it was completely intolerable. Thus they expended a great of time and effort to develop the spell so that it could used while clothed.

Talvi took the sack of dried black lotus petals from Imoen and ascended the stairs, trying her hardest not to make too much noise. When she reached the top, she saw that Imoen had not been exaggerating – there were six men mulling about, and they did indeed look rather mean. Whoever they were, they were no mere bounty hunters, sporting full plate armour and vicious assortment of weaponry ranging from maces and warhammers to longswords and halberds. They wandered around the halls, looking totally bored and desperate for an opportunity to inflict grievous bodily harm upon someone.

"Ugh, I can't take this any more," said the ruffian nearest to her. "Let's head down the Low Lantern."

"We will stay _right_ _here,_ " was the swift reply, coming from a particularly barbaric-looking individual. "Sarevok's orders were clear. And if you knew how Sarevok punished disloyalty, you would stand here for a thousand years if he asked it."

"Oh shut it, Cloudwulfe! I'll bet you've developed quite a taste for Sarevok's boots, eh? And what kind of stupid name is 'Cloudwulfe' anyhow?"

"It is a noble Uthgardt name, fool!"

"Heh, 'Cloudwulfe.' As in a wolf that lives in the clouds? Are you daft? Wolves don't fly, you stupid git!"

"They've been known to!"

Talvi spied a hearth on the opposite side of the room, so she waited quietly in the corner for the six men to wander off. As soon as they were out of sight, she darted over to the hearth and placed the sack of black lotus petals into the fire, taking care not to make any sudden movements that might break the invisibility spell.

Unfortunately, the black lotus petals proved to be more flammable than she anticipated, and the sack burst into flames with a loud _fwump_. The sudden conflagration made Talvi jump back, dissipating her spell. Instantly she turned and darted for the stairs, just as the six men came charging down the hall.

"Who's creeping around up here?" one of them bellowed, followed by the sound of him drawing his sword.

"More importantly," said another, " _what is that smell?_ "

"It smells like...like...it seems kind of good, actually. Really clears out the sinuses."

"Stand back, you fools! Someone has...someone...what was I saying?"

"You were saying, 'Come here and take a whiff of this. It'll really put your head on straight.'"

This was followed by the sound of all six men taking deep breaths simultaneously.

Talvi was positively beaming with pride when she returned to her companions. "You see, Imoen, that my cunning plan has unfolded perfectly. In a just a few minutes those men will in such a state of torpor that not even the hordes of the Abyss could rouse them. Now let's split up and search the floor for anything that might implicate the Iron Throne. Knowing these knobheads, they've probably written down their whole wretched plan somewhere." She took a few steps before adding, "And cover your noses."

When she ascended the stairs once again, she saw the six men huddled around hearth, eagerly huffing in the smoke and giggling giddily. There were several rooms along the hallway, but one set of doors at the end caught Talvi's eyes. They were fashioned from iron, imprinted with the grinning skull of Bhaal, and the frames likewise were adorned with skulls.

She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something suggested to her that this was Sarevok's bedchamber.

Khalid and Jaheira began searching the room to her left, Dynaheir and Minsc the one to her right, while Imoen looked through (or perhaps pilfered) the room near the end of the hall. Talvi, on the other hand, felt drawn to Sarevok's room, as if it held all the answers she sought. She carefully pushed open the doors, wary of any traps or snares Sarevok might have set, and then stepped inside.

" _My word!_ "

It was even more grotesque than she anticipated. The symbol of Bhaal had been carved into the floor, and all along the walls hung tapestries portraying gruesome scenes of death and bloodshed. One depicted a man screaming in agony while his entrails were torn out, another showed a group of hapless individuals being boiled alive with a throng of demons danced around the kettle, and the largest of the tapestries was that of a forest of bodies impaled on spikes.

And then there were the skulls.

All four walls of the room were lined with skulls, and when Talvi examined them more closely, she discovered that they were mere ornaments, but actual human skulls. The skull motif continued unabated throughout, with skulls lining the canopy of Sarevok's bed, along with the bed frame and _even the bedspread itself._ Someone had taken the time and effort to stitch hundreds of tiny skulls into the fabric; a surer sign of Sarevok's insanity could scarcely be imagined.

Oddly enough, when Talvi pulled back the bedsheets she found that there was nothing there except a hard, oaken slab. Did Sarevok actually sleep on this? No doubt such absurd asceticism and self-flagellation was responsible, along with his dubious divine heritage, for his murderous behaviour.

Where the weren't skulls, there were spikes. Great, big spikes made of iron and brass the ringed the walls and covered the ceiling. The four posts of the bed were capped with outward-facing spikes that promised an unexpected impalement to anyone who stumbled around in the dark.

Talvi could only speculate on the sheer level of moral decrepitude required to create such a place.

Next to the bed, sitting atop a plain wooden table ( _not_ decorated with skulls, oddly enough) was a large tome, bound in iron and featuring the symbol of Bhaal pressed into the cover. She guessed that this was was Sarevok's diary, and out of curiosity she opened it to the last entry and began reading. The penmanship was truly dreadful, bordering on illegible.

_9_ _th_ _of Mirtul, 1368_

_I do not know what it is that compels me to write these words. Perhaps it is merely vanity, or_ _perhaps it is the desire to leave some written record so that the future dead may know how the Lord of Murder claimed his father's legacy._

_But the faith of my followers shall not be a faith of words, but of deeds. I shall produce no holy scriptures, and I shall give no commandments but for one:_ Thou shalt kill.

_My mortal "father" Rieltar, along with that traitorous wretch_ _Davaeorn,_ _is meeting with the Knights of the Shield at Candlekeep. No doubt they seek to remove me as leader of the Iron Throne, unaware that their pathetic scheming has been obvious to me from the start. They shall die slowly._

_Gorion's ward continues to_ _confound_ _me, obstructing my plans at every turn,_ _and I am at a loss at h_ _ow this naive girl can elude me time and again._ _Someone once said that the elven mind is utterly inhuman in its depth and complexity, and perhaps there is something to these words. But I have not come so far to be undone_ _by someone who has spent her entire life in comfort._

Strangely, the following page looked to have been torn out. An examination of the rest of the diary revealed that a great many pages had likewise been ripped out. He had done so in a fit of rage? Or had Sarevok anticipated that she would find it, and torn out anything that might incriminate him? Whatever the reason, Talvi decided to take the diary with her. Before she left, however, she looked around for a quill and parchment, and after locating these writing implements she sat down to write an exceedingly hateful message to Sarevok, leaving it atop the bed where he was sure to find it.

* * *

"You want proof? There is your proof," Jaheira said flatly, dumping the stack of documents atop Duke Eltan's desk. "Manifests, ledgers, correspondences...all of which point to their involvement with the iron crisis. It was their plan to become the sole supplier of iron ore to the city of Baldur's Gate, and with the rising Amnish threat it is likely their prices would have been exorbitant."

"Worse," Talvi added, "Earlier I discovered that the leaders of the Iron Throne are meeting at Candlekeep. Can you imagine anything more foul than to see that noble library despoiled by their presence? I dare say they have chosen that place for no other reason than as a personal insult to me."

" _Ahem..._ yes. It will take me some time for me to look through this evidence you have collected. In the meantime, you must travel to Candlekeep and find out what this meeting is all about. You'll need a tome of great value to gain entrance; let me see what I have..."

He stood up and marched over to a bookshelf standing by the far wall and began looking through his collections. "Hmm, Abelard's _A Treatise on Necromany?_ No, too mundane. Jorvis Talleyrand's _Hymns to The Vigilant One?_ Too boring. What about...Lyran Trastamara's _My Luskan Whore?_ Too lurid _._ Ah-ha! This ought to pass muster with those blasted monks."

Eltan set the book down on his desk, and Talvi snorted in disgust when she saw the cover. "Feargus Urchadan's _A Ballad of Love Unrequited?_ What are you doing with this tripe on your shelves? I'll have you know that Urchadan plagiarised every line of his poetry from _The Sorrows of the Moon_ by the great elven wordsmith Faeranduil Sorvali. His only contribution was the addition of several ribald passages that demonstrate nothing except humans' utter inability to understand eroticism."

"It doesn't matter what you think of it!" Eltan replied with a scowl. "You must hurry to Candlekeep before the Iron Throne's meeting concludes. It will take you far too long to travel by foot or by horse; fortunately, I have just the thing to convey you there in all haste." He opened one of the desk drawers and withdrew a tightly-rolled scroll. "This spell of teleportation will have you at the gates of Candlekeep in an instant. I take you are all prepared to depart?"

Talvi picked up the tome, not even trying to conceal her disgust. "Yes, but-"

"Right, I'll just begin the incantation-"

Talvi stood up. "Wait! You aren't a practitioner of the Art, are you? You can't cast a spell that complex without the proper arcane background! One misstep and you'll teleport us inside a mountain or send us hurtling into the Abyss!"

Duke Eltan ignored and began reading from the scroll. " _Bluraggahzz furnz'orgarr f'ghatan..._ "

Before Talvi could utter another word the whole world suddenly dissolved around her. Soon she was weightless, being hurled along a corridor of light by a force unseen. She looked around for her companions, but they were nowhere to be seen. There was no sense of space of time, only the yawning abyss of some terrible transplanar void. Interdimensional existences flashed by in the blink of an eye, too swiftly to comprehend or perceive.

For a brief moment she was standing in the woods, at the shore of a lake. When she came to her senses Talvi saw that she was standing face-to-face...with herself. Who else could it be, someone so beautiful and radiant? Yet she was dressed strangely, wearing what appeared to be a black leather tunic of sorts.

"Now what's all this about?" Talvi wondered aloud.

" _Mikä tämä on?_ " her doppelgänger replied.

Before she could answer she was once again swept away by the arcane currents and deposited on a grand, crystalline city floating amongst the stars. Surely it could be nothing less than the grandest of spelljamming ships, and Duke Eltan's spell must have gone terribly awry to send her this far from Toril.

Talvi landed atop the ship's foredeck, and once more found herself staring down her exact double. This particular incarnation was dressed even more resplendently than she was, wearing a set of blue and white robes embedded with glittering jewels and gems and inscribed with runes that radiated magical energy. She wondered how many giant space hamsters it took to keep this ship aloft, but before she could ponder the answer the world dissolved around her, replaced by a raging torrent that swept her away.

"This is quite irritating," she said to herself. "If I ever return to Baldur's Gate I'll be sure to give Duke Eltan a good chastising for his incompetence!"

Suddenly she was floating about the skies of Faerûn, with the ground rapidly rushing towards her. For a brief instant she could make the out the entire coastline of the Sword Coast, with the cities of Baldur's Gate, Neverwinter, and Athkatla clearly visible. A few seconds later she could see the promontory where Candlekeep lay, and a terrible sound began screaming through the air – the unmistakable (and thoroughly contemptible) sound of the Chanters, tirelessly bleating the prophecies of Alaundo as they always had.

"By the gods, it's even more horrid than I remembered!" Her words were lost in the wind rushing by her, but she continued ranting to herself regardless. "It's so utterly pointless! Why, if I were Keeper of the Tomes I'd have them all flogged! 'Chanters'... _pfagh!_ Ulraunt has clearly succumbed to the ravages of time if he-"

Talvi landed squarely on her feet, the force of impact surprisingly gentle despite her rapid rate of descent. Before her loomed the walls, turrets, and spires of Candlekeep, and the rest of her companions were standing some distance away from her, all looking thoroughly disoriented. Seeing her former home was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes, dredging up painful memories of Gorion's death and her terrible flight through the woods. Yet the fortress seemed smaller somehow, a little less intimidating than it had been. Had she been a more sentimental individual, Talvi might have ascribed this to some sort of personal growth experienced during her travels, but instead she ascribed it as nothing more than a trick of perspective.

Not waiting for her companions to catch up to her, Talvi approached the Keeper of the Portal, who stood before the great iron gates of Candlekeep, forged for the sole purpose of keeping out the uneducated and unenlightened rabble. Though his face was hidden behind the visor of helmet, his displeasure at seeing her was obvious.

"Oghma preserve us! It's _you!_ "

"I don't much care for your tone," she said, "but I have brought the requisite tome of exceptional value. Know that it was provided to me by Duke Eltan of Baldur's Gate, and had it been up to me I would have chosen a tome of far greater literary value than this tripe."

The Keeper of the Portal took the book from her. "Yes, I believe Urchadan's works are... _acceptable._ But if I were, I would keep your visit as brief as possible. Ulraunt is liable to have a fit of the nerves if he learns you have return to this place, and knowing you, you'll probably end up starting a fire the longer you stay here."

* * *

Sarevok peered out from behind the bookcase, though remaining out of sight was not strictly necessary. The Ring of Invisibility would shield him from all but the most determined scrying, and those gathered here foolishly assumed that they were not being observed. Rieltar and Davaeorn were standing opposite the table from a duo representing the Knights of the Shield, and all four of them were completely oblivious to how short their time on this ball of dirt was. In truth there was no need for Sarevok to be here at all, but he would never forgive himself if he did not witness Rieltar's death with his own eyes.

Merely looking at Rieltar made Sarevok's hatred rage like a volcano in the pit of his heart. But his death would not come about by his hand. Gorion's ward had just come through the gates, and in a mere few minutes the doppelgängers lurking in the shadows would assume the shape of her and companions. They would slaughter everyone in this room, ensuring that blame for the deed fell squarely on the shoulders of that damned elven girl. It would be trivial to paint her as an agent for Amn, working to sabotage the efforts of the Iron Throne to alleviate the iron shortage.

"To answer your question, I do not know where Sarevok has gotten to," said Rieltar. "Perhaps he has sensed our intention to... _remove..._ him from his position, or perhaps he is indulging in his love of harlots at one of the many brothels by the docks. Regardless, he is no longer an asset to our organisation. War with Amn would not be in our best interests."

"Then you are short-sighted," answered one of the Knights. "Three things are needed to wage war: money, money, and yet more money. If the Iron Throne were to position themselves as a moneylender to the Grand Dukes, then war with Amn would be exceptionally profitable, provided the level of interest on your loans is sufficiently usurious."

"He _is_ correct," added Davaeorn. "So long as the city of Baldur's Gate is not burned to the ground, we stand to make a substantial fortune from any possible conflict with the Amnish."

Rieltar clenched his fists. "This is not about potential profits, this is about Sarevok! He is not half as clever or as subtle as he thinks he is. Over the past year I have observed him meeting with several individuals not connected with the Iron Throne, and he makes little effort to conceal his obsession with the dead god Bhaal. It's quite apparent that he's gotten himself involved in some kind of apocalyptic death cult – hardly the sort of group the Iron Throne wishes to be associated with."

One of the Knights crossed his arms. "Then eliminate him. I fail to see how this concerns us."

"I agree," said the other Knight. "Let us return to the matter at hand – the Iron Throne's encroachment on our territory. You have grown quickly – far too quickly for our liking. Our Amnish chapter profited greatly from the output of the mines in Nashkel...until _someone_ decided to contaminate the ore. Yours is a young organisation, Rieltar, while ours has endured for over a thousand years. You are _not_ negotiating from a position of strength."

Sarevok paid no more attention to their inane babbling. Let them weave their little plots and schemes; it would not save them.

A wizened old man walked into the room, immediately provoking a storm of ire from those gathered. Sarevok recognised him as Ulraunt, the Keeper of Tomes, and he carried in his hands a large staff with a gem affixed to one end.

"What's the meaning of this?" Rieltar barked. "We were promised a private meeting room, free from interruptions!"

"Oh, I'm _terribly_ sorry," Ulraunt replied, "but I happened to leave a rather important tome in this room. You'll forgive an old man his absent-mindedness, won't you?"

Rieltar's face was red with anger. "Yes, yes, yes, do what you must and get out! I swear, even in this place I can't hold a meeting without being constantly pestered."

Ulraunt walked over to one of the bookcases. "I understand completely. It's so utterly _dreadful_ when a band of ignorant, uncivilised barbarians starts running through the halls, disrupting my studies, and polluting our sanctuary of learning with their filth. But, alas, I can do nothing about them...nothing at all."

"Well that's just ridiculous," said Davaeorn. "You're the Keeper of the Tomes, are you not? Surely you'd wish to get rid of these people?"

"Oh _yes,_ " he said, turning to face the four of them. " _In the worst possible way._ "

Ulraunt levelled his staff at Davaeorn, and before Sarevok could blink a beam of light burst forth from the gem and shot straight through straight Davaeorn's chest. He glanced down at the smouldering hole in his torso before collapsing to the floor.

Recovering from the shock, Rieltar began casting a spell, too late to save himself. Ulraunt raised his hand, uttered a few arcane words, and Rieltar did not even have to time scream before his flesh turned to stone.

" _No,_ " Sarevok whispered. This was not how things were supposed to happen.

The two Knights of the Shield turned and ran, but their efforts to escape the slaughter were in vain. " _Evil must be opposed!_ " Ulraunt cried, and with a wave of his hand the bodies of the two hapless Knights burst into flames. They flailed about, screaming and howling in agony while Ulraunt cackled like a madman. "Burn in the Abyss, you savages! May the demons peel the flesh from your bones and pluck your eyes from your skulls!"

Several Watchers rushed into the room, followed by a red-robed monk. "Ulraunt, you fiend!" he exclaimed. "What have you done?"

"What you yourself have failed to do, Tethtoril! You, and all the other Readers! You let these swine walk through our halls and desecrate the sanctity of library fortress. What other option was open to me?"

"This is _murder,_ Ulraunt."

"Not murder... _justice._ Condemn me if you will, but the Chanters will sing praises of this day, when good men stood fast against evil and tyranny. Or shall I say, _a good man,_ because the rest of you were too stupid and apathetic to lift a finger!"

"There will be no more Chanters, Ulraunt. You have, by your own hand, brought bloodshed to Candlekeep. You are not fit to call yourself Keeper of the Tomes. The Watchers shall convey you to the dungeon, where you shall await your judgement. Do not resist. I would hate to see more death this day."

Ulraunt exploded in rage. "You... _you bloated degenerate!_ The Chanters are the very foundation of Candlekeep! Without them it would surely collapse into the dust from which it arose! Pass your fool's judgement upon me if you will, for history will surely judge me otherwise!"

Sarevok quietly exited the room, swiftly making his way downstairs. Had this all been the work of Gorion's ward, or was it mere happenstance?

Whatever the answer, it was irrelevant. He was rapidly nearing the point where the Iron Throne would no longer be of any use to him. No more would he concern himself with Gorion's ward; perhaps Winski had been correct in his assertion that opposing her would only serve to strengthen her.

Somewhere, in the dark corners of his mind, he could hear his true father speaking to him. _There is no problem that cannot be solved by the judicious application of murder._ It was time for the Grand Dukes to meet their fate.


End file.
